


To Feel This Kind of Thrill

by IanRightsOnly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Illness and recovery, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Death, Mutual Pining, No major character deaths, Slow(ish) Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 76,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanRightsOnly/pseuds/IanRightsOnly
Summary: A mutated virus has turned the world on its axis, forcing Mickey into a mandatory quarantine facility. When another resident is exposed, the building goes into a full twelve-week lockdown, but not before dropping Ian Gallagher into Mickey's world as his brand new roommate.The two men connect based on survival, unwarranted feelings, and a whole lot of denial—until the truths of their reality come crashing down.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 391
Kudos: 510





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> After 4 months of writing this story, I am absolutely ELATED to say that it's finally complete. Back in the beginning of March, I started to write a dystopian-style quarantine story, and this fic ended up being the result.
> 
> Basically, this is a “roommates to lovers” fic with a twist. And really, at the heart of it all, it’s just an excuse for a semi-slow burn Ian x Mickey AU about two men falling in love under extraordinary circumstances. It may be heavy at times, but it's a love story, through and through.

Prologue

Things didn't start off this way. Not initially, anyway. In the beginning, people were still working, still going about their daily business. Mickey had very much been one of those people, fuck you very much, because he didn’t think for one second that the entire planet was going to come to a screeching halt in the blink of an eye. He didn’t expect the world to spin out of control like the beginnings of some mediocre horror movie. But he was wrong, and it did.

There was a sense of impending change, a gradual shift in which people started to become more frightened as they realized things were getting worse instead of better. Countries began enforcing mandatory quarantine protocols, some areas going into full lockdowns depending on the level of exposure. The world was changing rapidly, until those changes started to feel like a normal part of everyday life. And everyday life, much to Mickey’s dismay, did come to a screeching halt.

The virus was alarming enough on its own, before the mutations started to occur. The symptoms were repeated on the news daily; fever, cough, sore throat, difficulty breathing. If a person managed to recover, lung damage was nearly inevitable. Recovering certainly didn't mean coming out unscathed.

That, of course, had only been the precursor to what came next. 

The mutation of the virus was a shock to everyone, so government officials had said repeatedly. Mickey somehow fucking doubts that, though.

After a few months, Strain 1 was considered contained. People had seemingly started to recover and things almost appeared to be improving, lulling the world into a false sense of security. That is, until Strain 1 began to mutate.

Strain 2 was different. Those that had initially “recovered” from Strain 1 fell into comas. From there, people began dying or worse. The description of those waking from their virus-induced slumbers was arguably the most unnerving part. They woke up different. Almost appeared healthy, but their memories had vanished, replaced with a very formidable desire to kill. Which, in Mickey’s opinion, is a pretty big deal breaker when determining healthy vs. unhealthy.

Not to mention humanity vs. something the fuck else entirely.

Doctors considered Strain 2 of the virus to be a new form of dementia, brought on by changes occurring in the brain while trying to fight off Strain 1. 

It's just that slapping the term "dementia" on an illness doesn't make it any less terrifying. And that's what it was, at the end of the day. _Fucking terrifying._

From there, the lockdowns increased. Governments worldwide took over apartment buildings and complexes and transformed them into mandatory quarantine housing. Nobody allowed in or out, except for the few stragglers that had been filtering in without anywhere else to go.

Which is how Mickey ended up here, in a goddamn apartment-building-turned-lockdown facility. Although cushy at a glance, it’s a fucking glorified prison at best and there’s no denying it. The world feels like a shell of what it once was and Mickey has long since kissed goodbye any hope of returning to normalcy.

He has access to the outside world, sort of, by means of his useless iPhone. But nobody has physical access to each other unless you’re stuck living with a roommate. The streets are a wasteland, turning Chicago into something of a ghost town. The virus isn’t exactly that of zombie proportions, but it doesn't seem to be all that far off, either.

Mickey’s particular building is now maximum security, because of fucking course, some poor fucking soul had to go and get themselves exposed on the floor below him. Now they’re in a mandatory, minimum twelve-week quarantine, starting today, complete with weekly doctor check-ins to rule out symptoms. The apartment is nothing more than a front for the horrors beyond its locked perimeter. He has all the food he could eat, all the supplies he needs. Their stock gets replenished when needed, which is the absolute least that can be done for them under the circumstances. There’s even a generous supply of alcohol, which Mickey has already taken the liberties of cracking into. He’s gonna fucking need it.

The icing on the giant, biblical-plague shaped cake, is the fact that he just got himself a fucking roommate due to lack of space and increased exposure.

Bull-fucking-shit.

He’s staring out the window down into the dreary, lifeless streets of Chicago when he hears the door unlocking from across the apartment. He could greet his new roomie, but he’d rather continue his attempt at burning a hole through the window with his eyes.

Mickey vaguely registers the sound of the door locking behind the new guy, an unwanted reminder of the hell that has become his life.

An awkward, somewhat uneasy voice interrupts Mickey’s pointless staring. “Um, hey. You must be Mickey.”

Mickey bites back his instant irritation, turning to face Mr. Fucking Obvious with a glare.

“Nothing gets by you, hm?” Mickey replies tersely.

The man stays silent, but doesn’t exactly look put off by Mickey’s unwelcoming attitude. He’s got an eyebrow raised curiously as he drops his bag beside him, glancing around his new, indefinite home. Mickey watches him, briefly wonders what his story is and how he ended up in this shitty situation. Not that he fucking cares, but it sucks all the same, and maybe he wasn’t expecting a guy his age to get stuck in this shithole, too. He’s got red hair, kind of long and slicked back like it’s getting too long for him to know how to style it. He’s freshly shaven, but Mickey figures that will change as soon as he realizes that nothing about life (or appearances) actually matters anymore.

“Lucky guess,” the man says. “The options were limited.”

Mickey snorts, not saying another word. He doesn't care enough to ask for his name. Red hair? Sure. He'll fucking call him Red, then.

Instead of humoring any sort of discussion, Mickey pulls out his phone and scrolls through it mindlessly. He glances up only when he notices that Red has busied himself with exploring the rest of the apartment. It seems that he has almost as little interest in Mickey as Mickey has in him.

Mickey listens as he moves from room to room, hears him finally dump his belongings on the bed in the unclaimed room across from his. When the door closes, Mickey cranes his neck to peek around the corner, confirming that he has shut himself inside.

That’s fucking fine. It’s not like he’s looking to make friends right now, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	2. Week 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up right where the prologue left off, folks. I hope you enjoy!

Week 1

Mickey doesn’t see Red for the rest of the night. He watches tv, he takes a shower. He plays video games until his thumbs go numb, and he definitely doesn’t keep looking in the direction of Red’s closed bedroom door.

It’s not that he wants to talk to him. It’s not even that he cares. It’s just the fact that there’s this person who he knows nothing about that is now living under the same roof as him for fuck knows how long in the middle of a goddamn disaster film.

Realistically, it could be longer than twelve weeks, and Mickey knows this. They could at least get the pleasantries out of the way before deciding to never speak to each other again. Maybe Mickey had been gearing up for someone annoying. Maybe Mickey expected to be the one pointedly doing the ignoring, and not the one being ignored.

He tries his best to stop thinking, welcoming sleep with open arms when it finally comes.

* * *

The next morning, Mickey wakes up to the unmistakable aroma of breakfast filtering into his room. He frowns, because _what the fuck,_ but he stomps his way into the kitchen, anyway. He knows better than to ignore the delicious smell of bacon, no matter where it’s coming from.

Red has bacon sizzling in one pan while he flips pancakes in another. There’s a plate of scrambled eggs on the counter beside the stove, and Mickey suddenly can’t ignore the rumbling in his stomach.

“You a fuckin’ chef or somethin’?” Mickey asks, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen’s center island.

This gets Red’s attention, making him turn towards Mickey with a bemused look on his freckled face. “Do I need to be a chef to make breakfast?”

“Guess not,” Mickey grumbles back.

Red shrugs, turning back to the stove. Mickey feels irritation bubbling up within him again, because why does talking to this guy feel like pulling teeth? He sits in uncomfortable silence, watching Red for a few moments until he turns back to face Mickey with a plate in his hand.

“Pancakes, bacon, and cheesy scrambled eggs,” Red says as he sets the plate in front of Mickey. “Not sure if it’s your thing.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, meeting Red’s eyes tentatively. “Thanks man, but you don’t gotta do this shit for my benefit.”

Red smiles just slightly before making his own plate, sitting across from Mickey after another moment.

“Not for your benefit. We all gotta eat, right?” Red suggests.

He’s right, Mickey decides, especially when the food is this delicious. He notices Red watching him then, maybe waiting for a reaction.

“It’s good,” Mickey mumbles around a mouthful of eggs.

Red’s laughter tells Mickey he at least said something right, and he feels relieved as a little bit of tension between them seems to drip away. They’re still quiet, and Mickey can’t figure out how to start an actual conversation, but it’s at least a start.

They finish their meals in silence, but Mickey nods his thanks when Red grabs both empty plates and places them into the sink. After the kitchen is clean, Red gives Mickey a brief wave before returning to his room again. Mickey sighs, returning to his normal place on the couch, flipping aimlessly through television channels. He doesn’t think about asking Red to hang out, because they’re still not friends and they’re not even real roommates.

No matter how many times he needs to remind himself, he’s not here to make fucking friends.

* * *

The next time Red emerges from his bedroom, it’s around nine o’clock later that night. Mickey made a frozen pizza several hours ago, not expecting Red to go twelve hours without a meal. Not that he fucking cares, because he still doesn’t.

He looks like he’s genuinely been sleeping, hair ruffled and eyes tired. Mickey acknowledges him with a nod that he returns unenthusiastically.

“Made pizza before,” Mickey announces, gesturing towards the oven. “You can have the leftovers, if you want.”

Red sort of looks surprised, but Mickey catches him smiling as he turns to grab a slice.

“You a fuckin’ chef?” Red mocks him, moving into the living room to sit on the recliner across from the couch. He eats his slice pretty quickly, obviously hungry after not eating all day.

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, smartass. If you consider frozen pizza and boxed macaroni and cheese to be chef quality, then I might as well be workin’ at a five-star fuckin’ restaurant.”

“Consider me honored,” Red deadpans.

Mickey chuckles, decidedly appreciating his subtle humor. He gets up to grab two beers then, offering one to Red without a word. Red takes a second to consider it before reaching out and taking it from him. Mickey shrugs. “Why not, right?”

“Why not,” Red repeats. “If the world is ending, might as well get drunk.”

Mickey cracks his beer, chugging half of the can before setting it down beside him and glancing back at Red. He swallows down a burp in the back of his throat around the carbonation, suddenly catching Red grinning at him for fuck knows what reason.

“The fuck you smilin’ at over there?” Mickey questions, suddenly feeling an unwelcome wave of self consciousness.

“You’re just funny,” Red says simply. “You have the right kind of attitude to actually survive this bullshit.”

“Don’t think it’s about attitude,” Mickey counters. “We’re either livin’ or dyin’ when this shit is all said and done.”

“I guess,” Red shrugs. He gulps down most of his beer at a rather speedy rate before going to grab another slice of pizza. When he sits back down, Mickey is already handing him another drink.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, until Mickey breaks their silence with a loud burp. He’s never exactly been a polite person by any stretch, but honestly? End of the world and all that shit, he’s allowed to fucking burp if he wants to.

“Not bad,” Red comments suddenly, like he’s critiquing Mickey’s burping skills or something.

“Wasn’t really looking for your approval,” Mickey says with his eyebrows raised.

And Mickey is annoyed now, because Red keeps getting this fucking smirk on his face, like he doesn’t take Mickey seriously or— _something_. Not that Mickey has given him any reason to take him seriously, but for fuck’s sake, usually people are intimidated by him at the very least.

He realizes now that Red has this entire way about him that’s spinning Mickey back and forth between irritation and what he thinks might be indifference.

Or maybe something else that he can’t quite place.

He’s busy stewing in his own frustration when Red lets out an impressive burp of his own, still fucking smirking around his beer when Mickey shoots him a look.

“You think you’re fuckin’ funny?” Mickey questions, and Red still won’t stop fucking smirking at him.

“Don’t think so,” Red replies easily. “Just gotta burp sometimes.”

“Right,” Mickey grumbles, turning his attention back to the television.

Red finishes his second beer not too long after, once again getting up to grab another slice of pizza. He bites down to hold it awkwardly in his mouth as he shuffles around, picking out two more beers and placing one down beside Mickey.

Half way through his third drink, Mickey feels Red’s eyes on him again. He shifts uncomfortably before glancing back at him and waving his hands around.

“The fuck do you keep lookin’ at me for?”

“Let’s play a game,” Red suggests out of left field, ignoring Mickey’s question.

It makes Mickey want to throw an empty beer can at his stupid smirky face.

“A fuckin’ what?” Mickey says, looking at him as if he has four heads.

“A game,” Red repeats. “You know what a game is?”

“Yes, I fuckin’ know what a game is,” Mickey snaps. “Fuck off, Red. Not playin’ any games with you.”

Red presses on, like he can’t take a fucking hint. “A drinking game. Twenty Questions, you know?”

Mickey chugs down the rest of his drink, irritably. “I know what fuckin’ Twenty Questions is. No, I don’t want to play it.”

“You must have had a lot of friends before the world went to shit,” Red says without missing a beat. He finally sounds annoyed, which makes Mickey feel slight vindication.

“Yeah. I was a real fuckin’ socialite, as you can imagine,” Mickey says.

He wanders over to the case of beer, picking it up to carry it back to where they’re sitting. He chugs a fourth beer down completely, burping yet again and refusing to look over at Red’s stupid face.

“Ten out of ten,” Red says suddenly.

Mickey ignores him.

He’s starting to feel a buzz, fucking finally, and his incessant urge to piss off the redhead sitting across from him is only getting stronger.

Red is also on his fourth drink now, Mickey notes. After another few minutes of silent drinking, he speaks again.

“So, Mickey-Who-Doesn’t-Like-Games, tell me something about yourself.”

Mickey glares at him again, feeling heated. “Well, I recently started livin’ in lockdown against my fuckin’ will with an irritating redhead who can’t mind his own business. Your turn.”

“Sure,” Red nods curtly, a sudden bite to his tone. “I also just started living in lockdown. My roommate is a bitchy, short dude who can’t seem to jump down off his high horse and realize that this might be the last twelve weeks of his miserable life. If he did, maybe we could be fucking friends.”

Mickey stares at him, mouth slightly agape. Jesus, that was an unexpected slap in the face if Mickey’s ever gotten one.

“Ian,” he says after a second. “My name is Ian.”

When Mickey doesn’t say anything, Ian finishes off his drink and stands up without paying Mickey another glance. He leaves his beer cans scattered on the side table next to the recliner, walking back to his room and slamming the door behind him.

Mickey stares back towards Ian’s bedroom, sort of stunned at his outburst. Also, fucking calling Mickey short on top of everything? What an _asshole_.

Except, Ian’s not really wrong. About any of it. And maybe that’s the most infuriating part.

Mickey downs a fifth and final beer before getting into bed and going the fuck to sleep.

* * *

Several days pass by before Mickey sees Ian again. He’s gotta hand it to the guy, he doesn’t fuck around when it comes to silent tantrums. Mickey realizes that Ian is actively avoiding him once he starts hearing his door open up only when Mickey retreats to his bedroom. Ian makes his own meals, takes his showers in the morning when he knows Mickey is still in bed.

Two full days go by, and Mickey starts to wonder if Ian is going to keep this up until one of them undoubtedly either gets sick or just fucking dies.

It’s fucking stupid, is what it is. Mickey knows he’s a pain in the ass, but it’s not often that he feels challenged by anyone. He didn’t mean to piss Ian off this badly. Or maybe he did. And yet, it’s nagging the shit out of him that he can’t get the guy to just fucking talk to him.

Mickey’s not exactly an open book. He’s not an especially charismatic person, and he’s certainly not winning any _friendship of the year_ awards. Usually, Mickey doesn’t give a shit if he offends someone. 

Why the fuck should it matter to him if someone has a problem with something he said or did?

It shouldn’t, and it fucking doesn’t.

At least, not usually.

But for some shit ass reason, Mickey is stuck feeling tremendously guilty over this entire situation. He could have humored Ian and his stupid drinking game. He could have at least just tried to talk to him like a normal fucking person.

After all, he figures he could be in far worse company.

But now, three fucking days later, Ian still refuses to speak to him.

And so, Mickey decides to do the only logical thing that he can come up with.

He’s going to ambush him.

* * *

When Mickey climbs out of bed that morning, he knows that it’s still too early for Ian to be up for his shower. He exits his bedroom and shuts the door quietly behind him. Creeping into the bathroom, he hides behind the door with the lights turned off. And now, he really just has to wait.

After a good ten minutes of standing in the darkness of the bathroom, he considers that this maybe was a stupid plan. He’s about to bail on the whole thing when he hears Ian’s door finally open.

Mickey covers his mouth with his hand, holding his breath as Ian comes trudging into the bathroom.

Ian flips the light on at the same time that Mickey slams the bathroom door shut behind him. Ian yells and swings a punch hard in Mickey’s direction, narrowly missing as Mickey ducks down out of reflex.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, you fucking psycho?” Ian yells angrily, grabbing Mickey’s shoulders and shoving him into the door. “Jesus, I was about to knock you the fuck out.”

“You missed, though,” Mickey points out.

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say, because Ian still has the upper hand with Mickey pinned back against the door.

“Wouldn’t miss now,” Ian points out. It’s an empty threat, but he’s not wrong.

“Calm the fuck down, okay?” Mickey insists, voice oddly calm in contrast to their current situation.

Mickey puts a hand over Ian’s where it’s pressing against his shoulder, trying to peel him off.

Ian sighs, releasing him as he takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Can you at least tell me what the fuck that was about?”

“I needed to fuckin’ get you to talk to me. Your dramatic ass has been ignoring me for days,” Mickey has more to say, but stops in his tracks when he notices Ian rolling his eyes.

“Have you ever apologized to someone before? Ever?” Ian asks, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Just asking—because you’re pretty fucking terrible at it.”

Mickey considers the question for a moment, staring blankly back at Ian. He can’t exactly remember apologizing to anyone, so, maybe he hasn’t. He can’t even think of a fucking reason why he ever would have.

“The fuck do I have to apologize for?” Mickey asks. It’s rhetorical, but Mickey already knows he’s going to get an answer.

“For being a douchebag,” Ian says adamantly, folding his arms over his chest. “A bitchy, shit-talking douchebag.”

Mickey frowns, eyebrows raised high. “You’re one to fuckin’ talk, Red.”

“ _Ian,_ ” he corrects him quickly. “And I’m only a douchebag because _you_ were a fucking douchebag, first.”

“Okay,” Mickey surrenders, even though he kind of hates himself for giving in like this. “I’m fuckin’ sorry, man.”

Ian studies him carefully, like he’s trying to figure out if Mickey is actually being earnest or not. He unfolds his arms, reaching over Mickey suddenly to pull open the bathroom door from behind him. “You’re free to go.”

“I’m free to— _what_? I trapped you in here. You got your shit backwards, Red.”

Ian doesn’t correct the nickname this time, simply gesturing for Mickey to leave.

Mickey stands stubbornly in place, not convinced that they managed to resolve anything at all. Which was the entire point of this fucking ambush-gone-wrong.

“Get out,” Ian says calmly. “I gotta take my shower now, Norman Bates.”

Mickey can appreciate a good movie reference any day. “Psycho? Not bad.”

Ian nods, leaning forward upon Mickey’s lack of movement. He shoves Mickey towards the open door just slightly, and Mickey fights the urge to shove him back out of habit. Ian moves closer again, pushing him a little harder until Mickey has no choice but to move his feet back to avoid falling.

Ian is stronger than he looks. And that fucking smirk is back.

“You think you’re a fuckin’ tough guy?” Mickey taunts.

He tries to step back into the bathroom right as Ian half-shuts the door, trying to push it closed as Mickey fights to keep it open.

Ian glares at him, still holding the door mostly closed with the weight of his body. “Let go of the fucking door, Mickey.”

“Are we cool or not?” Mickey asks, and he has no idea what the fuck has come over him but he can’t take no for an answer.

And he _needs_ an answer.

“We’ll be cool if you let me take my shower,” Ian decides.

Mickey finally releases his grip on the door, allowing Ian to close it the rest of the way. He stands stupidly in the hallway, feeling unreasonably bewildered by the entire interaction.

He remains in the same place for a few moments longer until he hears the shower turn on, his cue to go do literally _anything_ that isn't standing outside the bathroom door like a creep. 

"Hey, Mickey?" Ian suddenly calls out over the noise of the running water.

Mickey freezes, taking a step closer to hear him better.

"Uh, yeah?" Mickey yells back.

"Do you know how to make an omelette?"

_What the fuck?_

Mickey feels defensive on principle, because yeah he can fucking make an omelette.

At least, maybe he can. He’s definitely done it at least once.

Whatever, at least he's willing to fucking try.

"Yeah, man. I'll make you a fuckin' omelette."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	3. Week 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, friends! I wanted to clarify a few things. Without giving away too much, I was careful to tag this as angst with a happy ending and also no major character deaths. Remember that this story is being explored from Mickey’s POV, and he's very much living in the dark as far as not knowing what the outcome of this situation will be for him. 
> 
> Don’t be afraid to keep going with this story... but I won’t share much more than that!

Week 2

Mickey has learned three valuable lessons over the last week of his life. One, he actually _cannot_ cook an omelette. Two, he’s no longer allowed to use the stove-top in favor of not allowing the entire building to go up in flames. Three, he’s going to purposely light Ian on fire if he doesn’t stop making jokes about it. Why the fuck do gas stove-tops still exist, anyway?

It hasn’t exactly been bad, though. Ian still keeps to himself a lot of the time, but Mickey feels like they’ve created a decent balance somewhere between tolerating each other and maybe even becoming almost-friends. It’s not that Mickey is starved for human contact, he’s _not_ , but he can’t deny that it’s nice to have someone else around.

Seven months prior, before the virus gained any real momentum, Mickey had been living alone in the house he grew up in. His dad had just landed himself back in prison for fuck all knows why, and his siblings and cousins had finally moved on from their days of roaming the South Side streets. It was peaceful, almost. Word on the street was that his deadbeat father was in prison for life this time. Mickey should _be_ so fucking lucky.

Terry may have been his father, but only by blood. And if you ask Mickey now, he has long since figured out that blood means absolutely fucking nothing if you don’t want it to. Terry is as good as dead to him, anyway. If given an ultimatum between succumbing to the dismal fate of testing positive or seeing Terry again, he would choose the virus without even the slightest hesitation.

He hasn’t been close with the rest of his family in years, but he still misses them from time to time. He wonders where they ended up, if they’re safe or even still alive. They were more of a survival of the fittest type of family, rather than one that banded together for a common cause. Looking back, his father probably could have been dealt with a lot fucking sooner if they had come together to make it happen. Not that it matters anymore, because _nothing_ matters anymore. Just puts further emphasis on a lot of wasted years.

Mickey hasn’t had much contact with anyone since all of this started happening. It’s not like he’s been a saint throughout his twenty-five years of life, in and out of juvie and prison repeatedly, usually serving a year or less at a time depending on the crime. It was easy to fall out of contact with his family, and it was easier still to purposely avoid contact with his dad. He made a few “friends” in prison, sure, but they were more like acquaintances who usually owed him a favor.

And as far as relationships go—don’t even get him fucking started on that.

The cards had never exactly been dealt in Mickey’s favor, that much he could fucking tell you. He doesn’t remember when he started to recognize his attraction to men, only that it was an incredibly unwelcome realization at best—one that he planned on taking to his fucking grave before ever being found out.

Being gay was never the problem, after all. It was his homophobic, gay-bashing, douchebag of a father that was the problem.

Of course, secrets have a way of coming out far more than they tend to stay buried.

His brother hadn’t meant to rat him out, and he really never blamed him for it. Iggy made an offhand comment about Mickey sucking dick and, with a rather heavy fuckload of misfortune, hadn’t realized that Terry had come home earlier than expected.

Mickey doesn’t remember what exactly came next. A lot of fists, a lot of blood, and a lot of screaming. Mickey was always a heavy hitter; capable of holding his own even against Terry’s wrath. After putting up one hell of a fight, he watched Terry get shoved towards a police car, cuffed with a freshly broken nose and blood dripping down his face as he screamed, “ _Milkovich men aren’t fags!_ ”

Sure thing, Terry. Seemed like an awfully redundant comment to make under the circumstances.

Mickey just couldn’t resist shouting back from his front steps, middle finger held high. “ _Hope you suck some good dick in prison, daddy!”_

That was years ago, and it was the last time Mickey saw Terry. Their stints in prison often seemed to rotate, never both at the same time, and Mickey stayed far away from the Milkovich home whenever he got word that Terry was out.

Most recently, Mickey had been living in his own shitty apartment for a few months when he heard that his dad had likely just landed himself in prison for the remainder of his miserable life. Mickey didn’t ask why, didn’t fucking _care_ why, just knew that he hoped the news wasn’t too good to be true. He moved back into the Milkovich house shortly after.

Whether it stemmed from his inability to ever fully be himself or not, Mickey had never been a relationship kind of guy. Not girls, not guys, not anything. He had fucked a few women, regretfully, before finally admitting to himself that they just weren’t his cup of fucking tea.

Being with men just felt better to him, stirred something within him that he ignored until he just couldn’t anymore. It was natural for him.

But relationships? Not fucking likely.

Fast forward to present day, and Mickey’s troubled past almost feels like nothing when trying to look ahead to the future. He can’t ignore what’s right in front of his fucking face. There’s a high probability that Mickey doesn’t have a future anymore, because that’s why he’s here, right?

He’s spending the last weeks of his life _waiting_ to develop the symptoms that will ultimately lead to his untimely death. And it’s nothing if not absolutely fucked that the world is still trying to pretend he has a chance.

Because really, that’s what this place fucking is now. It’s not a halfway house for getting better. It’s not a hospital. It’s not a rehab center that he’s graduating from in eleven weeks. It’s a fucking glorified prison with a dead end, where he’s not much more than a monitored experiment.

At first, the quarantine housing had only intended to keep civilians contained and under some semblance of protocol.

But once people within the buildings began getting sick, it was obviously too late. Now, Mickey isn’t quarantined for the safety of himself or anyone else.

No—Mickey’s here because he was exposed. He’s _going_ to get sick. And unless something changes, there’s a very strong chance that he’s going to fucking die here.

Twenty-five miserable years of life, all leading up to this? Someone clearly fucked up when writing his story.

* * *

It’s midnight on a Tuesday night when Mickey rolls begrudgingly out of bed. He’s been tossing and turning for the last two hours, finally surrendering to the fact that he’s not falling asleep anytime soon. He’s been overthinking a lot lately, which is absolutely fucking useless, but he can’t seem to turn off his nagging brain.

He exits his bedroom quietly, surprised to see the familiar glow of the television illuminating the otherwise darkened apartment. Ian is sitting in the recliner (as usual), his favorite blue blanket wrapped around him. He turns to face Mickey, offering him a sleepy smile.

“Can’t sleep?” Ian asks, yawning tiredly.

Mickey almost envies him.

“Guess not,” Mickey says. He lies on the couch across from Ian, propping his head up on a pillow. He takes note of Ian’s heavy eyes, frowning. “You look tired, man. Why’re you still up?”

Ian looks at Mickey with a small smile, hesitant like he’s deciding how to answer. “I think there are about three thousand ways I could answer that question. Not really sure I know where to begin.”

As far as Mickey can tell, he has two options here. He can either indulge in Ian’s weighted thoughts, or he can pretend he’s choking to distract Ian entirely from whatever he wants to talk about.

This is crossing completely into the _friendship_ category, which counteracts any remaining placement in the _people surviving under unfortunate circumstances together_ category. Whatever. He figures he might as well have one friendship before his demise.

“Try me,” Mickey says. He watches Ian straighten up in his chair like he’s getting a second wind.

“You ever get dumped for being sick?” Ian questions, bitterness lacing his tone. “Like, someone just fucking dumped you because they couldn’t deal with you anymore. Or, weren’t fucking _willing_ to deal with you anymore.”

Okay, that’s not what Mickey was expecting. No, he obviously hasn’t been dumped before because he’d rather stick forks in his eyes than date anyone. But like, that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate how fucked up it is to leave someone that you’re supposed to be committed to. Especially over something like an illness.

“No,” Mickey finally says, watching Ian carefully. “Think that’s a pretty shit reason to leave someone, though. That happen to you?”

Ian nods, huffing out a laugh. Mickey feels bad. Like, really fucking bad. He feels helpless over how much he suddenly wishes he could help him. He even feels slight anger at whatever asshole person could leave him like this. Now, in the middle of this hell, of all fucking times to leave someone.

“It’s because I’m probably gonna die here, y’know? No sense in sugarcoating it. When I first got here, it was some bullshit about how we could wait out the twelve weeks to see if I got sick. But now it’s like—“ Ian trails off, frowning. “Whatever. Wasn’t worth waiting for, I guess.”

Mickey can’t quite figure out what to say, staring at Ian attentively like he’s encouraging him to keep talking if he wants to. Ian seems to get it, continuing on after another moment.

“We had been doing the long distance thing lately,” Ian explains. “He was away for school. I was exposed, he wasn’t, you know the rest. Not sure how me being here is any more long distance than what we were already doing, but, I guess that’s catastrophe logic for you.”

Mickey hates gay people, decidedly.

Not all of them, but definitely this fucking guy that broke Ian’s heart, because what the fuck? If you’re stupid enough to get involved with someone in the first place, then you should also be stupid enough to give them everything, too.

None of this jumping ship bullshit when things get difficult.

“Sounds like you didn’t lose anything worth havin’, Red.”

“You have to say that,” Ian says, but he’s smiling in a way that makes Mickey feel as though he might actually be helping.

“I don’t have to say shit,” Mickey reminds him. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true. Consider yourself lucky you didn’t marry the asshole, y’know? Vows are still vows even during a zombie apocalypse.”

“They should probably add that in,” Ian suggests.

Mickey quirks an eyebrow. “Add what in?”

Ian clears his throat, holding his hands out in front of him like he’s pretending to read from something. “Do you take each other in sickness and in health, _especially_ in the event of a zombie apocalypse?”

“I bet a lot more fuckin’ people wouldn’t go through with marriage” Mickey says with a chuckle.

Ian is still smiling, too. He’s sad, though, and his snarky humor isn’t nearly enough to hide it.

Silence falls between them after that, but it feels comfortable. He hears Ian’s breathing become steadier after a few moments, recognizing that he’s finally fallen asleep. Mickey feels himself getting tired again too, lets himself doze off in the warm glow of the television.

* * *

When Mickey wakes up the following morning, it takes him a few seconds for him to realize that he’s on the couch and not in his bed. He blinks tiredly a few times before stretching his body, noticing Ian’s blue blanket tucked snuggly around him.

Ian is no longer in the recliner, and Mickey figures he must have chosen to return to his own bed at some point during the night. The blanket is warm, and Mickey snuggles into it, fighting with the idea of drifting back to sleep. He gets a whiff of what he recognizes to be Ian’s cologne, and reminds himself to tease Ian about still bothering to wear cologne in the first place.

Who the fuck does he have to impress?

He hears the sink from the bathroom after another moment, realizing Ian must already be awake. Might as well get up and make some fucking coffee.

Ian meets him in the kitchen a few minutes later, smiling groggily at him. “Hey, stranger.”

A nickname? That’s new. Mickey can’t exactly chastise him for it, considering he’s been calling him _Red_ since before he even knew what his actual name was.

“Mornin’, Red. Thanks for the blanket last night.”

Ian looks back at him suddenly, a severe look on his face. “That’s my favorite blanket, you know. Do you know how honored you are to have the privilege of sleeping with it?”

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Mickey says, holding his hands up as if to surrender. “Smells like you, though. The fuck you need to roll around in cologne for, anyway?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever rolled around in cologne,” Ian says with a shrug. “Nothing wrong with smelling good, though. You don’t like it?”

Mickey loses count of the number of scoops he’s put in the coffee filter for no fucking reason, looking over his shoulder at Ian with a glare. He didn’t really mean it like that.

“I don’t _not_ like it. I just meant it was strong.”

“Then don’t smell it,” Ian says, moving beside Mickey to fill the coffee pot with water. “Blanket sniffer.”

Mickey finishes adding the coffee grounds with an undetermined final scoop count, eyes narrowed at Ian as he watches him pour the water into the reservoir. The morning light makes Ian’s eyes gleam a brighter green than normal, or maybe it’s just because he’s standing so close to him.

“You like your coffee real strong, huh?” Ian asks suddenly.

Mickey blinks, confused. “What?”

“Your coffee,” Ian points to the coffee pot, pressing the start button as it starts to brew. “You put like seven scoops in.”

 _Fuck._ Seven scoops? Jesus Christ, he might as well just eat dirt laced with coke. “I’m good, man, sorry. Just tired.”

“Hence the seven scoops,” Ian says with a smirk.

Mickey finds that he isn’t nearly as annoyed by Ian’s smirking face as he should be. He watches as Ian starts pulling out breakfast ingredients, aptly choosing to ignore the anxious thrumming within his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	4. Week 3

Week 3

Although Mickey is no stranger to living a rather isolated life, three weeks without any access to the outside world starts to become pretty fucking daunting. He’s beaten the shit out of at least four video games, and he doesn’t have any real hobbies to distract him from overthinking absolutely everything. The news is getting more and more depressing, and although neither he nor Ian have shown any symptoms yet, it feels like it’s only a matter of time. 

According to _everything_ , there is no documentation of survival once exposed. That’s not just an unfortunate statistic, that is a _zero percent chance_ of living to see the other side of this. He doesn’t know why they’re playing this fucking waiting game, as if both he and Ian are expected to just pretend everything is going to be fine. This is how people go fucking crazy.

They’ve each seen a doctor three times now, once at the start of every week. Doctors are covered head to toe in protective equipment—bodysuits, facemasks, gloves, the whole nine yards. No doctor has been able to give them any legitimate information except the news that at least seven others throughout the building have already fallen ill. Some are in comas. A few have passed away. 

It’s a lot to process, when Mickey still feels healthy as ever. He can’t for the fucking life of him imagine that somehow, within the next several weeks, he’s going to fall terminally ill. But that’s how it works, at least that’s what everyone keeps telling him. He knows that Ian is also on edge; wonders if he’s starting to feel sick at all. He doesn’t think it would be easy to hide.

There’s something else too, brewing in the back of Mickey’s mind. There's a certain degree of desperation in times like these, where Mickey finds himself frantically searching for anything to occupy his brain that doesn’t include this motherfucking virus shit.

Lately, for better or worse, that distraction has been Ian.

Ian isn’t really what Mickey expected him to be. He’s self-assured and strong-willed in a way that Mickey finds kind of endearing. Not that he would _ever_ tell him that shit in a million fucking years.

They’ve fallen into a pleasant rhythm within their day to day lives, one that Mickey never thought he’d develop with an unexpected stranger.

Ian likes to cook meals a few times a week, even has been trying to teach Mickey a recipe or two (under his supervision, of course). They watch tv a lot, and sometimes play video games against one another. Whoever loses generally gets stuck doing the nightly dishes. 

Ian has been working out a lot more since his breakup, too. Mickey figures it’s a good way to blow off steam and keep busy, but he can’t find the motivation to do it much more than twice a week. Ian works out daily now, challenging himself as best he can, and Mickey tries not to watch him nearly as much as he wants to.

There’s just this fucking thing about him that Mickey can’t quite figure out. He certainly isn’t bad to look at, and it’s getting harder and harder for Mickey to ignore.

It’s not like Mickey hadn’t appreciated his attraction to Ian when they met three weeks prior, but it was certainly the last thing on his mind. I mean, who the fuck wants to be dealing with the annoyance of a crush in the midst of the end of the world?

But it’s fine, really, because Mickey definitely doesn’t have a crush on the guy. First of all, he’s not some fucking lovesick school kid. Second of all, he’s also not a fucking idiot, is the thing.

Getting involved with some guy that he’s barely known for three weeks? Not fucking likely. One night stands are one thing, but this could never be that because they’re attached at the fucking hip whether they want to be or not. 

Mickey doesn’t do relationships, period. Being stuck under the same roof with Ian is as close to domestic as Mickey’s ever going to get, and that’s just because he has no choice in the matter. 

At the same time, Ian is unknowingly irritating the ever-loving _fuck_ out of Mickey through absolutely no fault of his own. Because Ian wakes up in the mornings with his messy hair and his raspy voice, sometimes not bothering to put a shirt on when he comes out of his bedroom to make a fresh pot of coffee. Which is fucking fine, except he’s alarmingly _hot_ and Mickey’s eyes fall over his toned body like a supercharged magnet.

And Mickey keeps _thinking_ about him.

He keeps thinking about their encounter in the bathroom from weeks ago, about Ian shoving him around like it was effortless. 

Mickey thinks a lot about how he liked it.

The thought makes Mickey’s skin crawl and he can’t get it out of his mind.

But it’s not just that. It’s _everything._ He always fucking smells good. His hair is longer now, falls to the side a little bit, and sometimes into his face once he’s sweaty from a good workout. He’s been letting his facial hair grow too, waiting almost a full week before shaving. 

Mickey just can’t stop thinking about him. He thinks about his smile, his body, his freckles. He thinks about his hair and he thinks about his eyes.

Really, more than anything, he thinks he’s pretty much fucked. 

* * *

Predictably, the days have started bleeding into one another. Time means fuck all when you’re stuck in the same damn place, doing the same damn thing day after day with no foreseeable end.

Mickey is about to head into the kitchen as per his usual morning routine, stopping in his tracks when his phone starts buzzing from its place on the bedside table. 

He walks over to grab it, glancing at the unknown number on the screen. Mickey honestly can’t remember the last time he got a phone call. He hesitates for another moment before answering.

“Yeah? Who the fuck’s this?”

“Mickey? That you?” It’s a girl’s voice.

There’s really only two women that would possibly be calling him, and he can’t exactly tell the difference between them over the phone.

“It’s me,” he says, waiting for her to identify herself.

“Good. Didn’t know if this was still your number,” she says. She sounds relieved. “It’s Sandy.”

Okay, so it’s his cousin. He’s glad he didn’t attempt to guess because he was definitely leaning towards it being his sister.

“Been a while,” Mickey says, mostly because he doesn’t really know what else to say.

He hears a dog barking in the background, vaguely wonders where she is and if she’s okay. She yells for the dog to be quiet before speaking again.

“I won’t keep you, Mickey. Just wanted to tell you that Terry is dead.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

Terry is fucking _what?_

“Terry _who?”_ Mickey grumbles, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

“Don’t give me that shit,” Sandy huffs out a laugh. “You heard me.”

“How?” He doesn’t know why he asks. He just needs to know.

“Died in prison,” she says simply. 

“No fuckin’ shit. He get sick or what?” Mickey asks, because how can he not ask?

That would definitely be the most obvious explanation.

She pauses briefly, like she’s figuring out what to say next. “Surprisingly, no, but I think he got what he deserved.”

“On with the details, bitch. I don’t have all fuckin’ day,” Mickey says impatiently.

He does, in fact, have all day. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“Another inmate was a silent Strain 1 carrier,” Sandy starts to explain.

Mickey fights back the urge to interrupt her, because he didn’t even know that was fucking possible.

“He didn’t show any signs, so nobody knew he was sick. Or it’s possible they were so mild that nobody actually noticed until it was too late. He reached Strain 2 and went on a murderous rampage at the prison. Your dad was lucky enough to be his cellmate.”

Well, there you go.

Good fucking riddance, dad. 

“Think we can get a copy of the security tape?” Mickey jokes halfheartedly, lying back on the bed.

“Just thought you should know,” Sandy says, ignoring his comment. “Also, Mandy’s with me here. We’ve been laying low and staying isolated for a few months now. Haven’t been exposed, though. At least we don’t think so.”

His sister and cousin hadn’t really been close growing up. He wonders how they connected and managed to find each other in the middle of all of this. He feels mild relief knowing that they’re together. Close family or not, Mickey will always care about them.

“Tell Mandy I said hi,” Mickey says after a moment. “Miss you guys.”

He doesn’t generally mesh well with his vulnerable side, but he figures now is as good a time as any to say it. 

“She’s sleeping right now,” Sandy says. “Could FaceTime you later for a celebratory whiskey shot, though. We miss you too, you know.”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “The fuck? We gonna be the type of fancy yuppie family that video chats now?” 

“FaceTime isn’t fancy, douchebag. You’re just shitty with technology. So answer or don’t, but I’m still calling back later,” she says stubbornly. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll answer if I’m not busy,” he grumbles.

He obviously won’t be busy.

“Later, Mick.” 

The phone call ends a second later. Mickey adds Sandy's number to his phone before dropping it beside his head, staring blankly up at his ceiling.

He feels like drinking. Partially to celebrate, partially because life has turned into a full blown fucking joke. In another lifetime, Mickey would be throwing a fucking party. In another lifetime, Mickey would have his entire life ahead of him, knowing that Terry could never bother him again. 

Whatever. At least his gruesome ending was more than well deserved.

He’ll drink to that.

* * *

Mickey isn’t surprised to find Ian in the kitchen when he finally exits his bedroom a while later. Ian smiles and hands him a mug filled with coffee, almost as if he’s been waiting for him. Mickey takes it with a grateful nod.

“You’re up kind of late,” Ian points out conversationally. “Everything okay?” 

Mickey huffs out a laugh, glancing at Ian with his eyebrows raised. “How much time you got?”

“Um,” Ian looks down at his wrist, pretending to look at a watch that isn’t there. “You’re in luck. Looks like I have absolutely nothing going on all day.”

“That’s convenient,” Mickey says with a half smile. He walks across the kitchen to open one of the cupboards, glancing at the various liquor options. “But first, we’re gonna make this coffee Irish.”

Mickey pours a hearty amount of whiskey into his coffee, glancing at Ian and offering him the bottle. Ian seems to consider it for a moment before taking a step closer and grabbing the bottle from him.

“You know that adding whiskey to coffee doesn’t automatically make it Irish, right?” Ian asks with a knowing smile.

“You a fuckin’ drink enthusiast now?” Mickey teases before taking a sip from his cup. It goes down smoothly. 

“No,” Ian rolls his eyes. “But, shockingly enough, I come from a very Irish family.” 

Ian grabs Mickey’s mug from him suddenly and sets it on the counter, placing his own beside it. He opens the cabinet closest to the refrigerator, pulling out a bag of brown sugar. He moves around the kitchen, grabbing several additional items—one bowl, one pan, heavy whipping cream, a spoon, and a whisk.

Mickey stares at him as he arranges everything together on the counter, ignoring Mickey’s persistent glare. He’s both intrigued and annoyed, because all he fucking wants is to get drunk, but here’s Ian making an absolute ordeal out of the entire thing. 

_It’s kind of cute_. Mickey shoves away the fleeting thought as quickly as it comes, growing more frustrated with himself than he is with Ian.

“We’re doing this the right way,” Ian announces. “It’s not hard. Pour your coffee in the pan with. I’ll add the rest from the pot.”

So, that’s what Mickey does. He turns to wait for further instruction, watching as Ian opens the bag of brown sugar and adds a little bit into each mug. He looks over at Mickey and clarifies, “Just a teaspoon for each cup.”

“You do know we could just get drunk without the fuckin’ theatrics, right?” Mickey points out, gesturing towards the very busy counter top.

Ian ignores him, dropping the stirring spoon into the pan of hot coffee. “Grab the cream. Pour a half cup into the bowl and start stirring.”

Mickey can’t believe he’s actually humoring this shit, but he does it anyway. 

“While you do that, I’ll pour the coffee back into each cup. It’ll mix better with the brown sugar,” Ian explains. “Now, time to add more whiskey.”

“Halle-fuckin’-lujah,” Mickey says. “Be generous.”

Ian fishes the spoon out of the pot of coffee, holding it over his cup. “Bring your bowl over here.”

Mickey removes the whisk and tosses it carelessly back on the counter. He carries the bowl over to Ian and looks up at him expectantly.

“Pour it into the mug over the back of the spoon. The heat from the spoon helps with the consistency,” Ian explains like it’s common fucking knowledge.

Mickey pours it, watching as it thickens up just a bit, coating the coffee in a cloud of foam. Mickey isn’t gonna lie, he’s pretty damn impressed.

They repeat the same action with the other mug a moment later. 

“Try it,” Ian says with his very familiar smirk. 

Mickey raises the drink to his lips and takes a sip, eyes widening as the flavors dance around his tongue.

Well, fucking shit, it’s absolutely delicious.

“Fuck, man. You sure you never did this shit professionally or somethin’?” Mickey asks.

He tries to fight the reddening of his cheeks when he notices Ian beaming back at him.

“Learned it from my older sister,” Ian says, a touch of fondness in his voice. “She basically raised me. My brothers and younger sister, too.”

Ian hasn’t mentioned his family before now, and Mickey wonders if he was close with his siblings. He’s about to ask when Ian suddenly takes a big gulp of his drink. It seems like he’s purposely moving on from the topic, and Mickey can take a hint. 

Ian sets the mug down beside him then, smiling at Mickey. “So, tell me, Mick. To what do we owe this impromptu session of day drinking?”

“Finish that one off,” Mickey insists, pointing at Ian’s drink. He chugs the remaining contents of his own before returning to the pan of coffee. “We’re gonna make two more, and then we’re gonna sit the fuck down and get wasted.”

Ian drains the remaining contents of his mug, licking the foam from his lips. “As you wish.”

“And to answer your question, we’re celebrating the death of my shithead father.”

* * *

As it turns out, downing whiskey with Ian all day is a much different experience than sharing a few beers had ever been. The smooth flow of alcohol in his system has not only made Mickey feel good, but he also swears he’s never been so fucking chatty. 

Mickey feels like he’s told Ian the vast majority of his life story at this point, and Ian has been all ears, making Mickey feel like he’s actually being heard for the very first time. Terry, prison, his struggles with being gay—Mickey has dumped more on Ian in the last few hours than he ever has on anyone before. And the weirdest part is the fact that he had genuinely _wanted_ to.

“Y’know, as far as shithead fathers go, I got one of those too,” Ian says, stretching back on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table in front of them. “Fucking deadbeat. Couldn’t give a shit about me even if I paid him.”

Mickey is sitting on the couch beside him, watching him thoughtfully. “Sure sounds like a shithead to me. You think he’s still around?”

“Frank?” Ian snorts, and Mickey assumes that must be his name. “It’ll take more than the end of the world to take out fucking Frank. Don’t care, though. Not like I’ll ever see him again.”

“What about that sister you mentioned before?” Mickey asks curiously. “And your other siblings.”

Ian sighs, stirring a straw through the glass of whiskey in his hand, watching the liquid slosh around. “Mostly ended up in different places.”

“You talk to any of ‘em since you got here?”

“Sometimes I do,” Ian says. “I miss them, y’know? My older sister, Fiona, she left over a year ago. She’s down south somewhere. Last I heard she was okay, shacked up with an ex and isolating herself. If she was exposed, she never told us. My older brother, Lip has our youngest brother, Liam and the rest of his family on lockdown at their house. Boarded the place up and shit, trying to keep everyone safe.”

Mickey smiles. It’s probably the alcohol, but he finds that he likes hearing Ian talk about his family. “Sounds like they’re doing okay, Red.”

“I like to think so,” Ian smiles somewhat sadly. “Then there’s Carl and Debbie, my other two younger siblings. They’re both together with my niece, Franny. Also haven’t been exposed, but they’re back at the house we all grew up in. I’m not really worried about them. Carl’s probably got the place wired to kill anyone that tries to get in.”

“Survival of the fittest,” Mickey chuckles. “Sounds like a tough kid.”

Ian sighs, nodding slowly. Mickey is hit with an overwhelming urge to comfort him, but he just has no idea how _._ He imagines that missing family when you were actually close with them makes this situation even more difficult to accept.

“It’s okay to miss them, Ian,” Mickey sits up against the back of the couch, meeting Ian’s gaze as he turns to look at him.

“You called me Ian,” he says. A lazy smile spreads across his face that makes Mickey’s chest feel tight. “You never call me Ian.”

Mickey feels his face heat up immediately, a direct result of the traitorous fucking attraction he feels coursing through his veins. He takes a quick sip from his glass, breaking their eye contact.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I feel like callin’ you, okay?” Mickey says grumpily, setting his glass down. He can feel Ian’s eyes on him, sees the smile still planted on his face. He needs him to stop fucking _smiling_ like that. “Also, can we put somethin’ else on? I don’t feel like watchin’ fuckin’ sitcom reruns all night.”

“You think you’re so intimidating,” Ian says. He picks up the television remote from its place on the couch cushion and jabs it into Mickey’s side. “M’not afraid of you, you know.”

The fuck? Mickey feels instant annoyance bubbling up within him. He reaches down to grab the remote when Ian snatches it back too quickly. He waves it above his head, silently daring Mickey to grab it from him. Mickey tries to reach for it, groaning when Ian holds it further behind him. 

“Give me the fuckin’ remote,” Mickey demands.

Ian shuffles until his knee is pressing against Mickey’s chest, holding him back. He tucks the remote underneath him, grinning that fucking mischievous smirk that makes Mickey want to punch his fist through a wall.

“Maybe I _do_ want to watch _fuckin’ sitcom reruns_ all night. Ever think of that?” Ian mocks him, doing nothing to temper Mickey’s frustration.

He tries to reach behind Ian quickly, freezing when Ian grabs for his arm and stares back at him.

Mickey grabs Ian’s other arm in a swift motion, pinning it down against the arm of the couch. He pushes forward in an attempt to gain the upper hand, flinching when Ian suddenly shoves both arms forward and knocks Mickey backwards until his back hits the cushion.

He’s hovering over Mickey now, grinning triumphantly in a way that sends a heated combination of anger and _very_ unwanted arousal through his body.

Mickey takes a deep breath, licking his lips absently as he stares up into Ian’s eyes. It seems to catch Ian’s attention as his smile starts to fade, replaced with something that has Mickey trying to keep his breath from hitching.

Mickey feels a slight surge of confidence, noticing the shift in Ian’s expression. His eyes are a little hooded, lips slightly parted as he keeps his gaze locked on Mickey.

Mickey mirrors his expression and whispers, _“What?_ ”

Ian’s got both of Mickey’s arms pinned above his head, and Mickey feels Ian’s thumbs start brushing back and forth over his wrists, their eyes still locked on each other. He has no fucking idea how something so innocent can feel so sensual, but every brush of Ian’s thumb has Mickey’s heart beating a little faster.

Ian tightens his grip around both of Mickey’s wrists, and Mickey is about to fucking lunge for Ian’s mouth just as his motherfucking phone starts _buzzing_.

Mickey can feel the moment dissipating from his grasp as soon as their eye contact breaks.

Ian glances towards Mickey’s phone on the table, releasing his wrists and climbing off the couch to grab it for him.

Mickey doesn’t want to answer it. He doesn’t want to do anything except throw it the fuck against the wall and watch it shatter into a million tiny pieces. 

“Here,” Ian says, smiling although his voice sounds a little uncertain.

His hair falls slightly into his face and Mickey’s mind is internally screaming for him to reach out and run his hands through it. If he doesn’t chill the fuck out soon he’s fairly certain he’s going to ask Ian to punch him.

“Thanks,” Mickey says awkwardly, taking the phone from him.

Unsurprisingly, the name on the phone screen reads _Sandy_ and Mickey decides instantly that he hates her on principle. Mickey glances at Ian who nods his understanding, heading into the kitchen to give Mickey some privacy. He aggressively swipes his thumb over the answer button.

“I will fucking murder you,” Mickey snaps, holding the phone up to his ear and dropping his voice down so Ian can’t hear. “You two cockblocking ass bitches.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that [Irish Coffee](www.delish.com/cooking/recipe-ideas/a58347/irish-coffee-recipe/) recipe is a real thing. I maybe tweaked it slightly, but you get the idea. Check it out for yourself :)
> 
> ___
> 
> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	5. Week 4 (Part 1)

Week 4 (Part 1)

To put things as bluntly as possible, Mickey has been _horny as fuck_ for the better part of the entire week. It’s been four goddamn weeks of solitude, and much longer since he had actually gotten himself good and fucked. He has a well-used vibrator that helps take the edge off, but lately it just isn’t quite scratching that itch the way it should be. And he blames it all on green-eyed, freckle-faced, sexy fucking Ian Gallagher. 

So, Mickey has a fucking crush. Sue him. It’s not like anything more has happened, besides the very spectacular cockblocking that occurred at the end of last week. Courtesy of his shitbag sister and cousin, who wouldn’t stop pestering the fuck out of him after talking to Ian over FaceTime. Ian just couldn’t resist returning to crash their video chat, leaving Mickey absolutely mortified as Sandy kept making sex jokes while Mandy unabashedly flirted with him over the phone.

It’s not like Mickey plans on doing anything about it. No fucking way. He may have been dangerously close to kissing the hell out of Ian’s smartass mouth that night, but the moment was gone as quickly as it came.

First of all, Mickey barely fucking _likes_ kissing to begin with, so he blames his drunk ass brain for that one. Second of all, he has no reason to believe Ian is even interested. Ian was pretty drunk too, and Mickey is perfectly happy never bringing it up again. He’s not doing the song and dance bullshit and he’s certainly _not_ allowing himself to fall further down this road. 

Sure, if he’d picked Ian up in some bar under vastly different circumstances, he thinks there’s a pretty good chance they’d already have banged by now. Probably twice. Maybe three times, because Ian makes Mickey feel a little bit insatiable and he figures maybe instead of one and done, they’d have fucked around for a week or so to get it out of their systems. But, that’s not the world he’s fucking living in, so much as the world he’s fantasizing about in bed every night. 

Ian went from being a mild distraction from a very horrendous reality to being a full blown fucking wet dream seeping through every corner of Mickey’s mind. 

Oblivious as ever, Ian seems completely unfazed by all of this. If anything, he’s friendlier with Mickey now, unaware that Mickey feels like there’s an explosive strapped within his chest every time Ian gets too close to him. He’s unaware that Mickey gets turned on whenever he comes out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s unaware that Mickey thinks about being underneath his half naked body more than he thinks about _most_ other things. 

Truthfully, Mickey wants to fucking swan dive right through the living room window. He doesn’t want to die, he just wants to knock the very carnal urges out of his brain forever.

* * *

As per usual, Ian has coffee ready when Mickey makes his way into the kitchen that morning. He takes it silently, sipping on it as he makes his way over to sit on the couch. Ian follows him, taking a seat beside him and setting his feet up on the coffee table. Mickey can feel Ian’s eyes on him instantly.

He ignores him.

Ian taps his fingers distractedly on the arm rest, but Mickey can tell from the corner of his eye that Ian is still looking at him. Subtlety is not one of Ian’s strongest traits.

“Okay, Mick, what’s the deal?” He asks suddenly. He sounds agitated in a way that Mickey isn’t used to.

Mickey looks back at him, bewildered. “The fuck you talkin’ about? The deal with what?”

“ _You,”_ Ian says, uncertainty in voice. “You’ve been acting so fucking cagey. I haven’t asked because it's really not my place, but I’m not an idiot. You’re hiding something.”

So fucking _what_ if he’s hiding something. Mickey is absolutely not having this conversation.

“Ian, stop.”

“Tell me the truth,” Ian pleads. ”Are you getting sick?”

Mickey sighs, stomach fluttering nervously. He knows that he should fucking talk this out like an adult because he isn’t ten years old and Ian doesn’t deserve this. 

“No, Red. I’m not fuckin’ sick.”

“Then what the fuck is it, Mickey?” Ian asks, searching Mickey’s face for some kind of clue. Mickey feels exposed, like there’s no way it isn’t written all over his forehead in big, glowing letters. “Is this about the other night?”

_Jesus Christ._

Mickey wishes he could bolt for the door, but what would happen once he got there? Oh right, _nothing_ , because it’s fucking locked from the other side.

There’s an extraordinarily large part of Mickey’s brain silently screaming for him to stop fighting this and just tell Ian the goddamn truth. He’s just too fucking stubborn to listen. 

“What _about_ the other night?” Mickey asks, trying to ignore the heavy beating of his heart.

Ian runs a hand through his hair. He looks anxious, like he isn’t sure how to answer. 

“What?” Mickey asks, holding his arms up. “You demand I talk to you and now you can’t use your fuckin’ words?” 

Pot calling kettle black, Mickey knows, but he’s so fucking frustrated. Ian looks deflated like he’s backing down, and Mickey realizes he likes it better when Ian pushes back.

Mickey tries again. “What _about_ the other night, Red?”

Ian lets his head fall back against the couch, groaning dramatically. He turns his head towards Mickey, raising an eyebrow. After a moment, he smiles just slightly. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian says, calmer now. “I think maybe I misread something.”

“Guess so,” Mickey grumbles quietly.

Ian is still watching him, and Mickey notices a sudden shift in his expression.

He recognizes it as the exact moment that Ian decides he’s not letting this go.

“You know what? That’s not true,” Ian says, sounding awfully sure of himself. 

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “What exactly isn’t true?” 

“You pretending you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. You almost kissed me,” Ian says adamantly. “You _wanted_ to kiss me.”

Mickey jumps up off the couch like the cushion is on fire, holding his hands out as if to keep Ian an arm’s length away from him. 

“What the fuck, Gallagher? _You’re_ the one that had me pinned down against the fuckin’ couch,” Mickey argues defensively. “You were lookin’ at me like you wanted to eat me for fuckin’ dinner.”

A heavy moment of silence passes between them before Ian starts fucking _laughing,_ grabbing a pillow from beside him and hurling it across the coffee table to where Mickey is standing. He catches it awkwardly before chucking it back at Ian’s stupid face.

“What the fuck are you laughin _’_ at?” Mickey feels his cheeks heating up, desperately trying to keep what’s left of his dwindling composure.

Ian stands up from his place on the couch and takes a step towards Mickey who instantly takes two steps back. He’s acting like Ian is going to kill him, which is probably not true, but he doesn’t want to be near him right now. 

“Yes or no question,” Ian says, backing Mickey across the room. “Would you have kissed me if your phone didn’t ring?”

Mickey’s back hits the wall behind him and he winces, looking up to meet Ian’s eyes once he finally stops, standing directly in front of him.

“Yes or no?” Ian asks again.

His proximity sends a spark through Mickey’s body. 

Mickey considers his answer, breaking their eye contact for just a second to glance at Ian’s lips.

Soft. Pink. Inviting.

He’s going to regret this.

Fuck it. He whispers a quiet, “Yeah.”

Ian leans in closer, raising a hand to Mickey’s jaw and tilting it upwards. He swipes his thumb over the corner of Mickey’s mouth, grazing over his bottom lip. Mickey’s lips part like he’s running on autopilot, mind going a little fuzzy from the rush of desire. 

In a haze of unanticipated courage, Mickey presses forward to lightly brush his lips over Ian’s. He smiles, buzzing with satisfaction when Ian’s breath hitches.

“Yes or no question,” Mickey murmurs softly against his mouth. “Would you have kissed me back?”

Mickey feels Ian’s lips curve into a smirk against his mouth, hand coming up to rest on the side of Mickey’s neck. Ian nips at Mickey’s bottom lip, tugging it between his teeth. It feels like the final thread of Mickey’s self control rips in half as he grabs desperately for Ian’s face and kisses him hard on the mouth. Ian is on him fervently then, fingers digging into his neck as his other hand grips onto Mickey’s waist. 

Ian kisses like he’s starving for it, tonguing his way into Mickey’s mouth as Mickey practically melts back against the wall. He drags his tongue over Ian’s lips, into his mouth, against his tongue; relishes when Ian lets a moan slip from his throat. It makes Mickey feel hot all over, like Ian is finally reacting the way Mickey has been feeling for the last week.

Mickey pulls back reluctantly after another moment, biting his lip as Ian chases his mouth for more. They need to talk about this before anything happens, and Mickey _despises_ the fact that his life has reached the point of needing to precede sex with a discussion. 

Ian takes a step back and pouts, sticking out his bottom lip. “It’s rude to interrupt people when they’re busy,” he says indignantly, out of breath.

“Oh is that what I did?” Mickey grins, taking a step closer back to Ian. “Yeah, you were real fuckin’ busy, weren’t you?”

“Just trying to keep up with this guy who’s got the hots for me real bad,” Ian teases.

“Okay, calm down,” Mickey grumbles, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t let it go to your fuckin’ head, okay? I haven’t gotten laid in months and I’m just—“

“Horny,” Ian suggests matter-of-factly.

“You’re much less attractive when you act like this,” Mickey points out. He’s lying. “In fact, I changed my fuckin’ mind.”

_Still lying._

Ian gasps dramatically. “You don’t think I’m cute anymore?”

Mickey so badly wants to be annoyed but he just fucking _can’t_ when Ian is standing there looking so incredibly enticing.

Yeah, he’s fucking cute. He’s so fucking alluring that Mickey can’t stand it. He wants him desperately. And from the way Ian is looking at him, he knows that continuing to fight this is useless—he’s _going_ to fucking have him.

They just need ground rules, Mickey decides. They can do this without actually getting attached. As long as they’re on the same page.

“Yeah, you’re fuckin’ adorable,” Mickey says. “Sit down so we can talk about this.”

Ian pulls a face. “Is this a hookup or a fucking business proposition?”

Mickey folds his arms across his chest stubbornly, raising his eyebrows. “You done?”

Ian rolls his eyes, sitting back on the couch and folding his hands over his lap like he’s at a fucking work meeting. He looks at Mickey expectantly. 

“I don’t do relationships, got it? That’s not what this shit’s gonna be,” Mickey explains. Ian reacts minimally, except for the very amused look on his face. 

“We made out once and you’re acting like I’m about to ask for your hand in marriage,” Ian says. “Relax, Mick. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”

Mickey does want to, so fucking badly, and that’s the entire problem that Ian isn’t grasping.

“This just can’t be a whole fuckin’ thing,” Mickey tries to explain, gesturing rapidly between them. “Like, we bang and move the fuck on from it, y’know?”

“Such a romantic,” Ian chuckles. “You’re really sweeping me off my feet here, Mickey.”

Mickey groans. “Fuck off, man. If you’re gonna be a bitch about it, just fuckin’ forget it.”

Ian considers him for a moment, leaning forward on the couch. “So you want to fuck, no strings attached?”

Mickey winces because this conversation has become so incredibly fucking awkward. It’s not even remotely sexy anymore and he hates himself for killing the mood.

“I want... whatever the fuck this is, if you want it too,” Mickey begins. “As long as we both get that it’s not serious.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Ian gets off the couch suddenly, meeting Mickey in the middle of the room and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “Twenty-four hours and done, and you shutting the fuck up, how about that?”

Mickey feels goosebumps rising on his skin, his sex-starved body instantly reacting to Ian being back in his space.

His mouth feels dry as he confirms, “Twenty-four hours?”

" _And_ you shutting the fuck up,” Ian repeats with a grin, closing the distance between them with a searing open-mouthed kiss.

It serves its purpose, at least, because Mickey definitely isn’t talking anymore.

Plus, he’s really gotta hand it to Ian—he brought the mood back real fucking fast.

With a plan settled, Mickey is beyond fucking done dragging this shit out. He slides his hands around the back of Ian’s neck and lets himself be kissed breathless. They walk together clumsily, hands roaming over each other’s bodies until Ian is backing both of them into his bedroom and kicking the door shut behind them.

Twenty-four hours.

No strings attached.

No fucking problem.

* * *

When it comes to fucking, Mickey isn’t exactly what anyone would consider novice or bashful. He likes what he likes and he takes what he wants, and his previous conquests were usually attracted to his couldn’t-give-less-fucks kind of attitude.

Sex is about one thing and that one thing has always been satisfying his own pleasure. Get off and get the fuck out. If his flavor of the week can’t get off by the time Mickey is done, why the fuck should that be his problem? 

Foreplay has never been his thing. Making out has never been his thing. Letting himself get so fucked out that his knees go weak?

_Never been his fucking thing._

However, Mickey is starting to find that there’s definitely a first time for everything. 

Because right now? Right now Mickey's legs are shaking as he comes down from his third orgasm of the day. He has no clue what time it is, no clue of anything really except Ian sucking another mark into the side of his neck as Mickey gasps to catch his breath. 

Fucking hell, it’s been a wild few hours. 

His first orgasm was a hand job. A fucking hand job, that’s all. But Ian has nice hands and he had one wrapped around Mickey’s cock before their clothes were even off. And Ian’s kind of grabby, like how he slides a claiming hand up and down Mickey’s torso while he works his magic with the other. 

And fuck, Ian likes to kiss. He kisses Mickey through his moans, lets his tongue slide lazily around Mickey’s mouth. He speeds up when he can tell Mickey is close, kissing him harder as he reaches his climax. It’s so fucking seductive and Mickey has no idea _why._

They get naked somewhere between Mickey’s first orgasm and the time he starts getting hard again. Ian gets mouthy as Mickey’s clothes come off, soft kisses and gentle bites down his body.

Mickey strokes himself back to hardness as Ian removes the rest of his clothes, climbing over Mickey’s body and settling against him for the first time without anything in between. 

He can feel Ian’s cock hard against his thigh, and Mickey’s gonna be honest; his urge to get railed is making him fucking ache for it. Ian kisses him again, sucking at his bottom lip as Mickey tangles his desperate fingers in Ian’s hair, deepening the kiss as their tongues brush together. 

“Want you to fuck me,” Mickey purrs against Ian’s mouth. He barely recognizes his own voice, can’t believe Ian’s got him begging for cock like this.

The thing is that Mickey knows he’s greedy in bed, but Ian makes him _want_ just a little too much. He needs Ian to fucking wreck him in every delicious way that Mickey’s body is craving, and the difference is the way Ian seems to want that, too. 

“You like getting fucked, Mickey?” Ian whispers, tracing the shell of Mickey’s ear with his tongue.

He mouths down Mickey’s neck, sliding his hands around Mickey’s body before grabbing onto his ass. 

Mickey nods, tipping his head back against the pillow. He tries to focus after a second, looking into Ian’s eyes as he reaches down to close his hand around Ian’s cock.

Mickey watches as Ian’s lips part, his green eyes slipping shut until he forces them open again. He likes how Ian feels in his hand, thick and heavy, and Mickey is fairly certain that he’ll be getting quite a mouthful before the day ends.

“Turn over,” Ian says with a bit of urgency in his voice, shifting his body to give Mickey some room. 

Mickey _really_ doesn’t need to be told twice. He rolls over to get comfortable, stomach and cock pressing into the mattress beneath him. Ian settles in beside him, his body pressing against Mickey’s side. He mouths at the back of Mickey’s neck, letting a hand explore a path down his back. Mickey inhales sharply when he feels a finger slide down the crease of his ass, making him arch his back eagerly into the touch. 

“You want it so fucking bad, don’t you?” Ian says, voice dripping with arousal. It’s much more of an observation than it is a question. 

Ian removes his hand before Mickey can respond, and Mickey is so keyed up that he’s quite honestly considering committing a fucking murder at the loss of contact. He hears a bottle popping open within another second, presumably lube, before he feels Ian’s finger pushing slowly into him.

_Fucking finally._

God, that’s all he fucking wanted.

Just one finger starts things off so, so good. Mickey has trouble doing this on his own, can never quite get the angle right. He doesn’t want any of this taking-it-slow bullshit; wants another finger right fucking now as he cranes his neck in an attempt to get Ian’s attention. 

Ian notices, leaning closer to steal another kiss from Mickey’s lips. He kisses him harder, getting him good and distracted until he’s adding a second digit. Mickey gasps into his mouth, pushing against Ian’s hand to feel more pressure.

“So impatient,” Ian whispers against Mickey’s lips, rotating both fingers together. “Fucking hot, Mick.”

Mickey has never been much for compliments but holy _fuck,_ that’s doing it for him. He reaches down to grab Ian’s wrist, stopping the movement of his fingers. Ian takes the cue to pull his hand away, waiting for Mickey’s next move as he turns on his side to face him again. 

It gives Mickey a chance to really look at the man in front of him, and it sends another wave of desire pumping through every inch of Mickey’s veins. Ian’s hair is everywhere, messy from Mickey’s hands, falling into his face and ruffled all over. His lips are swollen, eyes hooded to rival the lust that Mickey is feeling.

Ian smiles at him and Mickey’s chest feels tight. “Tell me what you want, Mickey.”

God, Mickey feels like his entire body is tingling. This is so fucking hot. Why is Ian asking what he wants _so fucking hot?_

Mickey reaches up to grab for Ian’s arms, pulling him down on top of him. He scoots further under Ian’s body, lets his legs fall open as Ian settles between them. 

“Just want you to fuck me,” Mickey says on an exhale. He leans up to kiss his mouth, tongue immediately swiping against Ian’s. Their lips are still touching when Mickey adds, “Get the fuck inside me, Ian.” 

Mickey doesn’t have the decency to be embarrassed by the lusty nonsense coming out of his mouth right now, just knows that he can’t be held responsible for the shit that he says during sex.

Except that it’s making Ian moan into his mouth, and Mickey realizes that his cringey words of desperation are getting Ian fucking going. And fucking hell, that makes Mickey want to do it more.

“Condom?” Ian asks suddenly against Mickey’s lips, breaking their kiss for a moment as he grazes his fingers down Mickey’s legs.

“The fuck we need a condom for?” Mickey groans, pressing his lips harder against Ian’s mouth. Ian chuckles, smiling as he pulls back just slightly. 

“Just making sure you’re okay without one,” Ian clarifies. “I’m clean.”

“Fuckin’ figured,” Mickey grumbles between kisses. “Me too, and if we only have eight more fuckin’ weeks to live I’ll take my motherfuckin’ chances.” 

Ian smirks into the kiss, grabbing onto each of Mickey’s thighs a second later. He hoists them up around his back until Mickey wraps them around both sides of Ian’s waist. Ian’s cock pushes into him fucking _finally,_ and Mickey lets his head fall back against the pillow as Ian sinks deeper inside.

 _“Fuck,”_ Mickey gasps, sliding a hand up to tangle back into Ian’s hair. Ian grabs onto his other hand, tightening his grip around Mickey’s wrist to pin it down against the mattress beside them.

Ian drags his tongue over Mick’s throat, rocking his hips gently against him. He doesn’t move much at first, letting Mickey adjust as he bottoms out. He feels _good._ So fucking good. Mickey feels so fucking full, stretched out around Ian’s cock in the exact way he’s been so fucking hungry for.

Mickey starts to move his hips beneath Ian, rocking upwards slowly, trying to determine if he’s ready to get this shit really going. Ian notices his movements, pushing down against him a little harder while keeping a relaxed pace.

The steady rolling of Ian’s hips might be slow but Mickey feels him everywhere. He pulls out completely before pushing back in again, and Mickey can’t hold back the moan that falls from his lips. 

“You’re not gonna fuckin’ break me,” Mickey bites out.

The urge to get his mouth on Ian comes out of nowhere, makes him pull Ian down towards him until he gets his lips on Ian’s neck. He drags his tongue over his skin, nips at his ear before whispering, “ _F_ _uck me._ ”

Ian gasps and thrusts into him harder, his nails digging into Mickey’s wrist while his other hand threads its way into Mickey’s hair. Ian definitely likes this shit, so Mickey grazes his teeth over Ian’s throat, digging his nails into the base of his neck. Ian responds with another sharp thrust, still moving agonizingly slow when Mickey tightens his thighs around his waist. He thrusts his hips up against Ian, rotates his angle until Ian finally catches his drift and starts to speed up. 

From there, things shift pretty quickly, and Mickey’s pretty certain that he’s damn near going to lose it. Ian’s no longer tentative, fucking into Mickey with relentless vigor as Mickey melts down into the mattress. He matches Ian’s thrusts, moaning as Ian captures his lips in another kiss.

The fact that Ian fucks the same way he kisses has Mickey fucking reeling. Sex has _never_ fucking felt like this, has never been so goddamn fulfilling throughout every inch of his body. His stomach is clenching, thighs shaking as he tries to hold out just a little fucking longer. He moans into Ian’s mouth, kisses him back with so much desperate enthusiasm that he feels like he doesn’t even fucking know himself anymore. 

“ _Fuck_ , you feel so good,” Ian murmurs into Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey pushes off the mattress just a little, gasping as Ian shifts their bodies together so they’re both rolling onto their sides. Ian uses the position to slide his arms around Mickey’s back, trying to pull him closer. 

Mickey laughs breathlessly when Ian smiles at him, pushes at Ian’s chest in an attempt to get him on his back. He’s having too much fun with this, their push and pull of power somehow turning Mickey on more than he realized it could.

Ian grabs onto Mickey’s waist as he rolls completely onto his back, pulling Mickey into his lap. He manages to fuck him through it, and Mickey damn near fucking keens when the new angle gives Ian a direct hit against his prostate. 

The noises coming from Mickey’s mouth are absolutely fucking shameless. He briefly wonders if other people in the building can hear them, whoever the fuck they may be. 

He rides Ian’s cock harder, planting his palms flat against Ian’s chest to steady himself until Ian surges up to snake his arms around Mickey’s back again. He pulls Mickey further into his lap, fucking into him roughly as Mickey meets him thrust for thrust without missing a beat.

Ian’s nailing that spot _over and over and over,_ and Mickey feels his orgasm building rapidly as his whole body starts to shake. He’s pretty sure Ian is close too, thinks he’s about to fall over the edge as his movements become a little less poised.

“ _Ian,_ ” Mickey sighs, his name spilling from Mickey’s lips. “Fuck, right _there_.”

His words set off a domino effect as Ian moans desperately and falls forward, pushing Mickey back down to the mattress beneath him. The resulting shove of Ian’s hips makes him hit deep inside Mickey, a powerful orgasm ripping through Mickey’s body in a fucking instant before he even realizes it’s happening. Ian fucks him through it, kisses him and swallows his moans until he’s coming too, moaning weakly into Mickey’s mouth.

They fall into a comfortable silence, clinging to each other for a few moments, breathing heavily in the haze of their climax. Ian pulls out carefully and settles beside Mickey’s body, smiling when their eyes meet.

Okay, so maybe Mickey’s second orgasm had been a fucking _good one_. And by _good_ he means it was fucking mind-blowing, and the absolute hottest sex of his entire fucking life. 

Not that Ian should let that go to his fucking head or anything.

The third orgasm comes a while later, after they’ve both woken up from a much needed, lazy nap. Ian gets his lips wrapped around Mickey’s cock and all but sucks him fucking dry, swallowing every drop without fail. He stares up at Mickey and licks his lips with a smug grin, and Mickey realizes that he might not actually live through the remaining hours of their agreement. He lets Ian continue to mark up his neck as he recovers, heart beating wildly within his chest.

For better or worse, Mickey absolutely can't remember any fucking reason he had for trying to avoid this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	6. Week 4 (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends :) I really hope you enjoy this one. It may start to answer some questions... while also probably creating new ones.

Mickey wakes to warm rays of sunshine washing over him, streaming in from the window above Ian’s bed. He remembers where he is; feels Ian’s steady breathing as he sleeps soundly beside him. Getting out of bed right now would rival a goddamn tragedy, so Mickey snuggles down into his pillow instead. 

Ian’s pillow, technically.

In his defense, Mickey had every intention of returning to his own bed last night, but after a few intermittent naps and more than a few lazy rounds of fucking, it just didn’t end up happening. He woke up around three o’clock earlier that morning with Ian pressed against his back, and going back to his bedroom no longer seemed feasible. Mickey knows that Ian has the twenty-four hour timer set on his phone, but he’s long since lost track of time. He has no clue when it’s due to go off. 

It feels like yesterday was a fucking fever dream, if Mickey’s being completely honest. Had he woken up in his own bed this morning, he’s fairly certain that he’d be questioning whether any of it even happened. His body feels heavy; completely encompassed in sated bliss. He’s also pretty damn hungry, but that can wait.

He’s not sure how many minutes pass before he finally feels Ian’s stirring, pulling him from his jumbled thoughts. Ian rolls onto his back and stretches his arms above his head, yawning tiredly. Mickey watches him, steals a glance at the muscles flexing in his arms. 

Ian smiles at him softly and Mickey feels a warmth spreading throughout his body, completely unrelated to the sunshine. 

“Morning, Mick.”

The words come out delectably raspy when Ian speaks, voice laced with remnants of sleep. Mickey’s useless, primal brain wants to wax-fucking-poetic over how sexy he sounds, but he’d sooner be caught dead than ever say that shit out loud. 

Mickey smiles back, fighting to keep his intrusive thoughts inside his head where they fucking belong. “Mornin’ to you, too.”

Ian leans over to where his phone is sitting on the bedside table, likely checking the time on its screen. And the timer. Mickey looks up at the ceiling in a miserable attempt to pretend that he isn’t paying attention. 

He’s still focused on staring at the ceiling when Ian lunges on him out of nowhere, pinning his wrists down above their heads against the mattress. He gets a mouthful of Ian’s tongue without warning, giving in pretty helplessly as Ian crawls completely on top of him. Making out with Ian has become one of Mickey’s favorite activities over the last day, and he’s pretty sure he’s gonna miss this shit once it’s over.

“We have thirty-seven minutes,” Ian says simply, releasing one of Mickey’s wrists in favor of skimming his fingers along his chest. “What can we _do_ for thirty-seven minutes?”

“You think you got thirty-seven minutes of fuck in you?” Mickey teases, his voice a hushed tone against Ian’s lips. 

“Now it’s thirty-six minutes,” Ian motions towards the phone as it continues counting down. “And you’re really overestimating your own stamina.” 

“Am I?” Mickey grins, playing with a strand of hair at the base of Ian’s neck. “Better fuck me and find out for yourself, then.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Ian says with a smirk, moving just enough to flip Mickey onto his stomach.

Mickey goes easily and eagerly, trying to watch Ian from over his shoulder. Ian crawls back on top of his body, pressing down against him as he slides two rough hands up each side of Mickey’s torso. He feels Ian’s mouth latch onto the side of his neck, nipping gently at an impressive bruise from the previous night. 

God, Mickey fucking loves this. He arches his back against Ian’s stomach, feels his cock pressing hard against the curve of his ass. Mickey pushes back harder, gasping when Ian sits up and grabs tightly onto his hips. Mickey can tell he’s trying to stifle a moan as he slides his cock between the crevice of Mickey’s ass. And holy fuck, Mickey swears he’s about to start begging for it if Ian doesn’t hurry the fuck up.

There’s something about a good, final fuck the morning after a full day and night of banging that’s really getting Mickey going. He’s still stretched and wrung out from yesterday, making it so fucking _easy_ for Ian to completely sink inside of his body. He pulls out and pushes back in slowly, starts fucking into him a little harder until he’s all Mickey can feel. Mickey gasps, eyes slipping shut as his mouth falls open. He grabs onto the bed sheets, fisting them through his soaring pleasure. 

It’s all so fucking good. Mickey loves that he’s lost track of the number of orgasms he’s had. He loves how fucking filthy it is that they slept naked together in Ian’s come-covered sheets. He loves the way Ian’s got his fingers digging deep into his hips, giving Mickey everything he’s fucking got. He loves the fresh bruises trailing down his neck, hips, and thighs; tangible reminders of their amorous twenty-four hour agreement.

Ian has learned a whole fucking lot about Mickey’s body since yesterday morning, and he sure as shit knows how to get him off fast. There’s no fucking way Mickey is lasting anywhere _near_ thirty-whatever-fucking minutes and they both know it. That feeling in the pit of Mickey’s stomach begins building rapidly as Ian increases his speed. He tugs harder at the bed sheets, moaning at the heightened pressure. 

“So fucking hot how much you like this,” Ian says, moaning as he pulls Mickey’s hips back against a particularly hard thrust. 

Mickey’s stomach clenches, another moan spilling from his lips. “Fuck, _yeah_. God, fuckin’ give it to me.”

Ian does. Faster. Harder, harder, _fucking harder_. The bed is hitting the goddamn wall and it’s so fucking good and so fucking obscene and Mickey can’t hold back anymore when he shouts Ian’s name and comes hard into the sheets beneath him. Ian fucks Mickey through it, eases up and loses some of his finesse just before spilling into him a moment later, letting his body collapse down on top of Mickey’s. 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Ian gasps, dipping his head down to kiss Mickey’s neck gently. Mickey can feel Ian’s heart pounding as he lies flush against him. 

“You’re so fuckin’ good at that shit,” Mickey says breathlessly, hardly recognizing his own voice. 

Where the fuck did _that_ come from? It’s fucking true, but that doesn’t mean he had any intention of saying it out loud. 

“Mmm, that’s ‘cause you take it so fucking good,” Ian smiles, seemingly unfazed by Mickey’s confession. 

Ian lifts himself just enough for Mickey to roll onto his back until they’re pressed together again, chest to chest. Ian kisses him hard on the mouth, and Mickey hopes he doesn’t notice the blush blooming across his face.

Mickey really can’t be sure how long they remain tangled together, completely immersed in one another. He lets himself get absolutely lost in Ian’s lips; sucking and biting and tasting his mouth like it’s his last goddamn meal. It vaguely dawns on him that if he doesn’t stop this, his very ravenous libido is going to win out over any form of rational thinking. He’s about to regretfully push Ian away when the timer goes off, right on fucking cue, and then Ian is suddenly detaching himself from Mickey’s mouth.

Ian hovers over Mickey for a moment, a lazy smile on his face. Mickey smiles back, his chest heavy with something that he can’t quite identify. He’s not about to start overthinking shit right now. No fucking thank you.

Honestly, Mickey wants to stay in bed for a while longer before he even considers getting up. His body is begging him to go back to sleep, and it’s not like he has any pressing plans preventing him from doing so. Ian rolls off of Mickey slowly, maneuvering out of bed. 

He watches as a very naked Ian busies himself with digging through his dresser drawers, pulling out a fresh pair of sweatpants and a clean t-shirt. Mickey very blatantly admires the view as Ian gets dressed, raising his eyebrows when Ian looks back to meet his gaze.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mickey Milkovich.”

A fucking pleasure, indeed. 

Mickey shoots Ian the finger in lieu of an actual response, although he’s certain that his smile is giving him away. He watches Ian walk towards the bedroom door. For a fleeting moment, he almost considers asking him to stay.

Ian hesitates to open the door, turning back to Mickey once more. “I don’t mind if you sleep in here,” he says. ”Get some rest, okay? I can make you something to eat later.”

That sounds like the second best idea Ian has ever had. Runner-up only to his very brilliant twenty-four hour proposal. Mickey quietly mutters, “Thanks.”

Snuggling down into Ian’s pillow, he listens to the door quietly clicking shut. Mickey settles in, tries to fall back asleep. Except for the fact that he can’t get Ian out of his brain. At all. 

Mickey needs to stop thinking about him. 

It’s in a cascade of emerging panic that Mickey realizes he absolutely _cannot stop thinking about him._ And it’s fucking ridiculous, because what the fuck is his brain doing? This was supposed to be meaningless, insignificant sex. 

Fucking sex, that’s it. 

Yet, here he is, lying in Ian’s bed. Under Ian’s blanket with his head resting on Ian’s pillow. 

Thinking about Ian’s smile. And his eyes. And his lips. Thinking about the way Ian kisses. And the way his kisses leave a pleasant ache in Mickey’s chest. 

_Mickey doesn’t even like kissing._

The entire purpose of their agreement had been to end Mickey’s pitiful, ill-advised desires. Presumably Ian’s as well. No strings attached. And it was absolutely not meant to leave Mickey with a flammable fucking hotbed of unresolved feelings.

Mickey doesn’t do this shit, and he absolutely refuses to let Ian be an exception. What he needs to do is calm it the fuck down and leave all of this shit alone.

For starters, he’s never mentioning any of this ever again. And for fuck’s sake, he needs to keep Ian at arm’s length until he can get all of this under control.

He can do that.

He needs to do that, no matter what.

* * *

It takes nearly three full days of completely ignoring Ian before Mickey starts to feel a profound amount of guilt. 

Much like Ian had ignored Mickey several weeks prior, Mickey has been taking every precaution to avoid Ian at all costs. He showers when Ian is sleeping. He eats when Ian is showering. He shuts himself away in his bedroom when Ian is in the living room.

It’s been working out so far so good, except for the fact that Mickey feels like a fucking asshole and he hates that he even cares. 

But he fucking does, and that’s the entire goddamn problem.

He knows he can’t keep this up forever, giving in on the evening of the third day. He exits his bedroom, finding Ian in the kitchen rummaging through the refrigerator.

“Hey,” Mickey says hesitantly. 

Ian turns around abruptly at the sound of his voice, a look on his face that Mickey can’t quite place.

“Well, if it isn’t Mickey Milkovich, ladies and gentlemen!” Ian exclaims suddenly, feigning excitement. “As I live and breathe,” he adds dryly. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

Mickey glares at him, nodding his head slowly. He deserves that, but what the fuck is he supposed to say? He doesn’t know how the hell to handle any of this. 

“You actually gonna talk to me or should I go cowering into my bedroom?” Ian snaps impatiently.

It dawns on Mickey that he probably made things infinitely worse by ignoring Ian for the last three days, because now they _have_ to talk about it.

If he had just continued being Ian’s friend and ignoring everything else, things probably would have been just fucking fine. 

“Calm down,” Mickey says, instantly regretting it when Ian slams the refrigerator closed and heads for his bedroom.

Mickey follows him, grabbing him by the shoulder but taking a step back quickly when Ian flinches away

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Ian says angrily. “Fucking say what you have to say or don’t. I really don’t care.”

Mickey feels like he’s stuck somewhere between angry and _hurt._ He doesn’t know how to approach this without making it worse.

God, how the fuck did he let himself get into this situation?

He just wants everything to go back to normal. Whatever the fuck normal for them even is.

“If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be pissed at me,” Mickey tries. He says it as calmly as his voice will allow.

Ian is staring at him like he’s trying to figure him out. His face softens just slightly, and Mickey thinks maybe he can work with that.

“I’m a dick, okay?” Mickey adds quickly, watching Ian’s face for some kind of a reaction. He gives him very little to go on besides a dramatic eye roll.

“I know that already,” Ian says shortly. Then, an almost imperceptible curve of his lips when he adds, “I’ve known that shit for over four weeks.”

Mickey tries not to smile. That’s a good sign. 

“No, I mean. I’m sorry for being a dick since—” Mickey trails off, waves his hands in the air like that’s the best explanation he has to offer. 

“Since we fucked,” Ian says bluntly, raising an eyebrow. “Or has your virgin mouth lost the ability to say such vulgar words?”

It’s Mickey’s turn to roll his eyes, shaking his head as he stares at Ian’s very obstinate expression. 

“Since. We. Fucked.”

Mickey emphasizes each word, speaking distinctly.

Ian nods, obviously pleased with himself. “There you go. Was that so hard?”

Mickey doesn’t have a chance to answer before Ian is shouldering past him. He grabs a beer from the case beside the counter and throws himself down on the couch, leaving Mickey standing awkwardly in the kitchen.

“You want me to go?” Mickey asks uneasily. 

“Don’t care,” Ian says.

Fucking Christ, Ian is quite possibly the most stubborn person Mickey has ever met. He grabs a beer for himself and joins Ian in the living room, sitting on the recliner across from him. Hiding away in his room won’t make this shit any better. 

The silence between them is unfamiliar and tense, and Mickey fucking hates it. He wants to blame all of this on the fact that they got involved in the first place, but the fact of the matter is that this is because of Mickey’s own actions.

Ian is reacting exactly how he fucking should be. Mickey hates that even more.

He’s extremely grateful when Ian turns on the television, breaking up the deafening silence.

Mickey isn't really paying attention at first, sucking down his beer and stewing in his own bubble of self-deprecation. That is, at least, until the news catches his attention. 

> _“...This turn of events is, of course, gravely unprecedented. It is with careful consideration and the deepest of regrets that medical staff will be disconnecting ventilators from patients failing to recover before entering the comatose state of illness. As you know, there is no current cure for the Strain 1 or Strain 2 phases of this virus. Civilians that survive Strain 1 through the comatose state will develop into Strain 2, and we are not equipped to handle the repercussions that follow. There is a zero percent rate of recovery at this time. If you have been exposed, the devastating reality is that you will more likely than not become ill. Once you become ill, our medical personnel will attempt treatment until you reach a comatose state. This virus is changing rapidly, and we are failing to control its outcome thus far._
> 
> _We simply cannot allow our citizens to fall into the comatose state, knowing that the end result is even more horrific. If you know someone that is sick or you know someone that has fallen into a comatose state without coming forward, you are potentially sentencing everyone around you to a horrible fate._
> 
> _Strain 2 patients are no longer your loved ones. They become a shell of who they were prior to contracting this virus. They are stripped of humanity in a way this world cannot contain or control. They will hurt you. They will kill you long before you have a chance to become sick yourself. We are losing too many people to this virus; do not ignore this. You are condemning yourself and others by trying to protect those that can no longer be saved. We will take action by any means necessary._
> 
> _We will continue doing everything in our power to find a cure. Meanwhile, we urge everyone to take this warning seriously. Tread carefully. Stay home, and stay safe.”_

Mickey stares at the screen for a few surreal moments, trying as hard as he can to process the severity of the statement. The message begins repeating like it’s on a loop until Ian shuts it off abruptly. Mickey turns to meet Ian’s gaze, recognizing the striking change in his expression. He no longer appears closed off or irritated. He looks terrified. He looks the exact way Mickey is feeling. 

“Somehow, I keep forgetting what this is,” Ian says weakly, dropping his head into his hands. “I keep forgetting the reason we’re here.”

Mickey can tell that Ian is fighting to hold back tears, and he feels so completely and utterly defeated.

He knew this. They _knew_ this.

But it’s different to hear it spoken on television, so fucking plainly spelled out. How can he comfort Ian when he doesn’t even know how to fucking handle this himself? How is he supposed to handle this at all? 

He feels like a lab rat. Like they’re being kept alive just for the sake of trying, which is fucking bullshit. Realistically, he gets it. They’re searching for a cure so it’s not like they’re just going to fucking kill everyone off that gets sick. 

But it’s happening anyway. People are dying anyway. 

They’re going to fucking die _anyway._

Mickey looks at Ian, really fucking looks at him. He sees the fear in his eyes. He sees a man suddenly looking small enough to be a boy; a man who had so much to live for only to have it all pulled out from under his grasp. He sees a man who, in a different lifetime, Mickey maybe could have had something with.

Something real. 

Maybe Mickey would have followed him to the ends of the fucking earth just to keep him from ever looking this painfully broken.

“Ian,” Mickey begins gently. “Man, look at me.”

Mickey moves to sit beside Ian on the couch without thinking, puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s not awkward at all; it’s just the only thing Mickey can do in an attempt to console him. Because it’s the right fucking thing to do and Mickey needs to fucking do it.

Ian turns to look at him, smiling softly. He wipes the stray tears out of his eyes, resting his head against the back of the couch. Mickey mirrors him, a sad smile on his face.

“How are we supposed to just accept this shit?” Ian asks earnestly. “Pretty fucking ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Mickey sighs. “It’s fuckin’ bullshit, is what it is. But what the fuck’re we gonna do about it?”

“Don’t know,” Ian pauses, then smiles a little bit wider. “Maybe we can at least stop fighting?”

Mickey scoffs. “We weren’t really fightin’. But I do promise to stop bein’ such a dick.”

Ian scrunches up his face like he’s thinking. 

“I wasn’t asking you to change your entire personality, Mickey.”

Mickey laughs, punching Ian in the shoulder without any real force. “Real fuckin’ funny, bitch.” 

Ian starts really laughing then, and it’s the most genuine interaction they’ve had in days. Mickey’s stomach feels like it’s twisting in on itself, and he’s not an idiot; he recognizes it for what it is. 

Mickey likes him. _Really_ likes him.

And he likes him a lot. 

But Ian doesn’t need Mickey making things complicated. Right now, Ian really just needs Mickey to be his friend, and that’s exactly what he’s going to be. 

Maybe that’s exactly what Mickey needs right now, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	7. Week 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize for the delay in getting this written and posted. Between breaking my laptop and dealing with a family emergency, it has been... a long week. 
> 
> Regardless, I really hope this was worth the wait. 
> 
> Enjoy, and thank you for reading!

Week 5

While the outside world is falling apart, Mickey tries as hard as he can to keep his and Ian’s inside world together. The bubble that they’re living in feels like the last remaining aspect of Mickey’s life that he has any semblance of control over. Right now, he finds that it’s also the only thing he’s any fucking good at.

The days continue to drag on endlessly, blurring together in a dull haze of warped time. Under the circumstances, it no longer feels like a difficult task to keep his feelings for Ian at bay. They’re still there, simmering under the surface of Mickey’s skin, but they’re not consuming him. For the first time in his life, he’s finding out what it really means to have a friend. And what it means to _be_ a friend, too.

Mickey’s not exactly an expert on human behavior, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the subtle changes in Ian’s demeanor over the last few days. There’s something off about him; an absence of the usual spark within him that Mickey has become so familiar with. Ian seems like he’s a million miles away, so Mickey lets him be.

Except that he’s worried about him. 

It’s a fucking conundrum that Mickey finds himself significantly more concerned about Ian’s well-being than he does his own. Maybe Ian is a good distraction. Maybe worrying about Ian keeps him from worrying about himself. Or maybe he just fucking cares and wants Ian to be okay. But he gets it. He really fucking gets it.

Because this shit they’re doing now; what the fuck kind of life is this?

Looking back now, the first few weeks really hadn’t felt all that abnormal. They danced circles around each other, figuring each other out like you would in any new living situation. The changes to their lives had been inconvenient, but there was still a faux sense of normalcy surrounding them. The concerns of the virus had been less tangible, and much easier to ignore. 

When it comes down to it, they were living in a whole lot of fucking denial. But who the fuck wants to spend all day, every day thinking about dying? Fucking nobody, that’s who.

But Mickey knew there was no cure. Weeks ago, months ago. Ian knew it too. They both knew they had been exposed, and they both knew how this was likely to end. There had still been a glimmer of hope, though. Mickey didn’t realize how much he had been hanging onto that until it was completely fucking gone.

The developing updates on the virus had been a fucking wake up call. There is no easy way to welcome the idea of dying. Mickey never thought much about it. Mickey never really felt like he had much to live for _anyway_ , but he finds himself wishing that he at least could have had the chance to figure that shit out for himself. 

So, why the fuck _shouldn’t_ Ian be miserable? Mickey is pretty fucking miserable, too. The lack of hope has left Mickey feeling battered and drained, and it seems obvious that it has done the same for Ian. 

It’s not like Ian is avoiding him, and Mickey recognizes the difference. He still gets out of bed, still takes a shower mostly every day. His beard is kind of wild, but Mickey thinks it suits him. They eat meals together, even if Mickey has to force the issue. They watch television mostly in comfortable silence, but Ian still talks when prompted; sometimes makes comments about the stupid sitcoms that he loves so much. But beyond that, Ian has little interest in doing much else.

Mickey does his best to pick up Ian’s slack. He tries to make Ian’s life a little bit easier, wants him to know that he’s not stuck going through this shit alone. It’s obvious that this is impacting him badly and Mickey would never fault him for that. 

Instead, Mickey figures out how to cook without burning the building down. He does Ian’s laundry and even cleans the hell out of the apartment just for the fucking sake of doing so. 

Mickey realizes that it’s becoming progressively more difficult to sit around on his ass doing fuck all of anything. He can’t keep sitting on the fucking couch staring at the television as if he’s watching tiny grains of sand pouring through an hourglass; like he’s just waiting until the last piece finally falls.

He wonders how the fuck he ever made it through his time in prison. Maybe it’s because there was always a light at the end of the fucking tunnel, rather than a metaphorical path towards an electric chair. The apartment may not be a prison cell and Ian may be a step up from a typical cellmate, but it’s becoming harder and harder to appreciate the differences.

At least prison wasn’t the end of his story.

It’s late into their fifth week when Mickey finally feels himself wearing thin. He’s running on autopilot and a fair amount of caffeine, and very little of anything else. He switches his blanket and sheets from the washer to the dryer, stares at the dryer until his mind goes blank. 

He doesn’t realize he’s shaking until he sees his hands trembling in front of him. The tightness in his chest comes on rapidly, making his mind go foggy. The empty feeling suddenly morphs into absolute fucking rage. And he wants to fucking _scream._

Mickey kicks the dryer. Once. Twice. Three times. He slams his fist against it like it’s a goddamn punching bag, wincing at the sharp pain that shoots through his hand at the impact. He wants to get the fuck out. He wants to run for his fucking life and never look back until he gets away from _everything._

He wants to take Ian with him.

But he can’t. He fucking can’t, and before he can focus on what he’s doing he ends up on the floor with his head buried in his hands, leaning back as the dryer rumbles behind him. He has no idea how much time passes before Ian is suddenly kneeling beside him, grabbing his shoulders in an attempt to pull him back to reality. 

“ _Mickey,”_ he hears Ian’s concerned voice, muffled at first.

Ian repeats his name, and Mickey hears it more clearly the second time.

Mickey takes a deep breath, opens his eyes just as Ian pulls him in for something similar to a hug. He rubs a gentle hand down Mickey’s back, grounding him, and doesn’t let go until he feels the tension slowly releasing from Mickey’s shoulders. Ian is staring at him, his green eyes wide and worried. Mickey takes another deep breath, a sense of clarity finally returning to him.

“Fuck,” Mickey huffs out, still trying to calm his erratic breathing. “I don’t know what the fuck just happened.”

Ian is watching him thoughtfully, and Mickey realizes on a very unrelated note that he must have shaved his beard at some point this morning. 

“I think you were having a panic attack,” Ian says softly, still kneeling next to him.

“I don’t get panic attacks,” Mickey argues weakly. “Never in my fuckin’ life.”

Ian sighs, and he’s looking at Mickey in a way that makes him feel uneasy.

“Happens in stressful situations, Mick. It’s not your fault.” 

Mickey doesn’t know why the fuck he’s so embarrassed. Yeah, Ian is probably right. No, it’s not his fucking fault. But still. Mickey’s trying so fucking hard to keep his shit together and this isn’t him. He’s not some weak ass fucking kid that can’t handle his own shit. He can handle everything just fine. He can take care of himself. 

“Maybe you’ve been taking on too much,” Ian suggests. His voice sounds a bit unsure and Mickey can tell that he’s treading carefully. “Not like you can’t,” he clarifies. “But you’ve been dealing with my shit, too.”

“I’m not _dealing_ with anything,” Mickey argues, although there’s no bite to his tone. “You’ve been depressed, man. Ain’t your fuckin’ fault, either.” 

Ian nods, but looks uncomfortable. Mickey thinks he probably feels guilty.

“Just wanted to say thanks. I’m sorry for putting more pressure on you.”

Mickey meets his eyes again, nodding back just enough to show that he understands. Ian smiles after a moment, and Mickey feels a pleasant ache in his chest completely unrelated to anxiety.

“You shaved,” Mickey says suddenly. He imagines that his discomfort over the idea of continuing a very serious conversation is glaringly obvious.

But if Ian notices, he doesn’t push the subject.

“Yeah,” Ian chuckles, rubbing a hand over his chin. “Decided I was looking a little too feral.”

Feral is one way to put it. Mickey fucking liked it, but whatever floats Ian’s boat is fine with him.

“Maybe,” he says absently. “Looked good, though.” 

It’s definitely not intended to be fucking flirty because Mickey doesn’t do that shit, but he realizes it may have come off that way when he notices the way Ian is looking at him. 

“You know what I fuckin’ meant,” Mickey adds quickly. 

“Sure,” Ian smirks. 

God, Mickey loves that fucking smirk. He realizes how much he’s missed seeing it this week. From what he can tell, it’s a sure sign that Ian is feeling more like himself again, and he wants to hold onto that.

He wants Ian to be fucking happy as they stumble together down this ugly, dead end road.

Their reality is bleak and that’s a stone cold fucking fact, but Mickey doesn’t _want_ to sit around feeling sorry for himself. He doesn’t want Ian to be struggling so much that he can barely function on his own.

It’s not fair, none of it will ever _be_ fair, but moping around for the last few weeks of his life somehow seems so much worse than maybe at least trying to enjoy it. 

He decides to start by getting fucking shit-faced, because it’s a lot more rewarding than ending up stuck inside his own head.

And Ian needs to fucking unwind, too.

“Fuck this shit,” Mickey says, finally standing up from his place on the laundry room floor. 

Ian raises his eyebrows but follows Mickey’s lead. “Fuck this shit,” he repeats with an adamant nod of his head.

“We’re gettin’ drunk tonight, Gallagher,” Mickey says decidedly. It’s not open for discussion. “Go grab some fuckin’ whiskey.”

* * *

Mickey’s not saying it’s ideal to drown your woes in copious amounts of booze, but under their current circumstances he’s also not saying that it _isn’t._

Because in the middle of a broken world, there are far worse fucking things than getting absolutely trashed with Ian laughing happily on the couch beside him. 

They’ve been doing shots tonight. Shot after shot after fucking shot. Mickey’s got a beer cracked now, not really sure how many drinks he’s chugged down. His mind feels hazy, a comfortable warmth spreading through his body as his blood swirls in alcohol. 

Ian is fighting off hiccups while he tries to tell a story, intermittently sipping his own beer as if that’s going to do shit to help.

Mickey tries to ignore the fucking fondness he feels as he listens to him ramble. 

He’s failing miserably, though. While the rest of his senses get dulled down, his feelings for Ian are disgustingly heightened in his inebriated state.

He’s got it under control, though. Even if he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Ian in what feels like hours.

Unguarded and animated, Ian is kind of captivating like this. From his lazy smile to the drunken flush on his cheeks to the way he’s laughing at his own jokes, Mickey is so inexplicably drawn to him. 

As his rambling slows down, Ian slumps back against the couch, smiling at Mickey with a lopsided grin. 

“You’re so fuckin’ wasted,” Mickey says, smiling back at him through hooded eyes. 

“ _You’re_ fuckin’ wasted,” Ian repeats, pointing a finger at him. “M‘kay, yeah, maybe I’m a lot fuckin’ wasted.”

Mickey chuckles. Ian’s sluggish, slurred words are more than enough proof of that. 

“Think we deserved to fuckin’ let loose tonight,” Mickey says admittedly, an unexpectedly loud belch following his words.

Ian’s grin widens. “So attractive,” he teases.

And Mickey knows it’s a joke, fucking obviously, but the tone in Ian’s voice sends a jolt of _something_ down Mickey’s spine. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey says dismissively. 

It’s the wrong thing to say, because Ian instantly sidles closer to him on the couch. Mickey should know by now that instigating any form of challenge with a stubborn, drunk-as-fuck Ian Gallagher is not a good idea.

Mickey slides away from him in the same second, narrowing his eyebrows. 

Ian starts laughing then, shoving playfully at Mickey’s arm. “Calm down, Mick. Y’think I’m gonna fuckin’ bite or something?” 

Well, no. That’s hardly what Mickey was thinking at all, but he’s definitely fucking thinking it _now._

Mickey stares at him, somewhere between irritated and a little bit enthralled.

“No, I don’t think you’re gonna fuckin’ bite me,” Mickey finally says.

He rolls his eyes for effect. 

Ian moves closer still, and Mickey remains frozen in place. His heart is pounding, but Ian just smiles at him. Mickey looks away from him, focusing instead on the empty glasses and beer bottles cluttering the living room.

“I would never,” Ian says calmly, then shrugs. “Unless you fuckin’ wanted me to.”

Jesus fuck.

Mickey’s alcohol-addled brain can’t decide if Ian is hitting on him or if he’s genuinely just babbling his own drunken nonsense. His body is unsurprisingly reacting to Ian’s proximity, because of fucking course it is, whether he wants it to or not. There’s a voice in the back of Mickey’s head screaming violently about how badly he wants Ian’s teeth on his neck. 

He forces himself to ignore it.

Except there’s something about the way Ian is looking at him that makes his skin suddenly feel like it’s tingling. Or maybe that’s the fucking booze, too. Even from the corner of his eye, he feels Ian’s weighted gaze. The silence between them suddenly becomes deafening, and when Mickey’s eyes lock back on Ian’s he feels heat surging through his body. 

Before Mickey can even react, Ian is leaning in to kiss him. He meets Mickey’s mouth like a magnet, lips slotting together in a familiar rhythm. Mickey closes his eyes and hums into the kiss, starts to lose himself in it as Ian cups the side of his face. Mickey melts into his touch, parting his lips to deepen the kiss although the pace remains slow. 

But as Mickey’s brain starts to catch up to the rest of his body, he remembers why he very resolutely decided not to do this. It’s going to fucking complicate things in the worst way. And right now, with Ian fucking trashed and barely thinking clearly, they just fucking _can’t._

Mickey forces himself to pull back from Ian’s lips, breaking their kiss as he puts a hand against Ian‘s chest to keep them apart. When he opens his eyes, the dejected look on Ian’s face is almost too much for him to handle. Ian is looking at him, waiting for any kind of explanation, and Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to say.

“Fuck, sorry,” Ian says quietly after a moment of silence passes between them. “Don’t know why the fuck I just did that.”

All Mickey wants is to kiss him again. He wants to make him smile. He wants to do _everything_ with him again. But Mickey can’t do this part. He can’t do the relationship thing, and he just can’t fucking feel like this.

Why the fuck can’t he just _stop_ feeling like this?

“It’s fine,” Mickey says, mostly because he needs to say something. But it’s really not fine. This is fucking killing him. 

“Don’t freak out,” Ian begs. “Please. Can’t handle you not talking to me again.”

Mickey’s heart feels like it’s splitting down the center. He shakes his head, because no, he’s not fucking doing that shit anymore. 

“Not freakin’ out, Ian. Promise.”

Ian sighs, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the couch. Mickey almost forgot how drunk Ian is, and it certainly makes his decision feel a little more justified. He pokes Ian in the arm, but it sort of seems like he’s already on the verge of falling asleep. 

Mickey wavers slightly as he stands up from the couch, his own intoxication becoming more evident. He stumbles his way to Ian’s bedroom, grabbing his favorite blue blanket and a pillow from the bed. 

When Mickey returns to the living room, he’s not at all surprised to find Ian sprawled out horizontally on the couch. Mickey throws the blanket over his body, lifting his head gently to slide the pillow beneath it. His fingers graze through Ian’s hair, and Mickey needs to force himself to pull his hand away.

If Mickey’s got any kind of luck on his side, Ian hopefully won’t remember any of this shit by tomorrow morning anyway.

* * *

The idea of getting shitfaced is all well and fucking good until it’s the next morning and Mickey’s head feels like it’s getting squeezed by a giant, human-sized claw machine. He pops two aspirin, chugging an entire bottle of water in their wake as he waits for a fresh pot of coffee to brew. 

He turns his attention towards the living room when he hears Ian shuffling around on the couch. Ian is sitting up when Mickey looks over, rubbing his eyes and squinting across the apartment to where Mickey is standing in the kitchen. His hair is a fucking disaster as he rubs a hand down his face, wincing at what Mickey only assumes is an absolute bitch of a headache.

Ian groans dramatically, and Mickey watches as he flops back down on the couch. He’s smothering his face under his pillow by the time Mickey reaches him.

“You okay, Gallagher?” Mickey asks, although he already knows the answer.

Mickey sits on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, holding out his hand to offer Ian a bottle of water and some aspirin.

Ian grumbles through the pillow. He moves it off of his face a moment later, eyes still squinted as he looks at Mickey.

“I feel like I got hit by a fucking freight train.”

“Yeah, man. That’s ‘cause you got fuckin’ trashed last night,” Mickey reminds him.

Ian takes the pills, drinking a liberal amount of water before setting the bottle down on the floor. 

Mickey can almost see the wheels turning in Ian’s head as he struggles to recall the events from yesterday. He sits up again, staring at Mickey through a dull, hungover expression. His eyes widen a little bit then, and he shifts uncomfortably like he’s starting to remember the details.

“Shit, Mickey. Did I kiss you last night?” Ian asks, and Mickey can hear the genuine frustration in his voice.

And maybe a little bit of fear. 

Yes, Ian kissed him.

Yes, Mickey kissed back. 

_Yes,_ Mickey wants to fucking do it again. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says instead, averting his eyes to the ground. “S’okay, though.”

“I was so fucking wasted,” Ian replies quickly, like he’s desperately trying to justify his actions. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Mickey is pretty damn surprised that Ian even remembers in the first place. He also doesn’t want him to be fucking sorry for it. Things are stressful enough without digging a rift between them now. 

“Don’t be sorry, man. I fuckin’ kissed back,” Mickey admits, busying himself by lining up empty beer cans along the edge of the table.

He’s trying to avoid looking back at Ian, mostly because he’s afraid to see the expression on his face. 

Ian’s fixated on him though, probably thinking way too hard, and the tension between them suddenly feels like it could be cut with a knife.

“So, was this like an _I-kissed-you-because-I-was-drunk_ thing? Or more like an _I’ve-been-too-afraid-to-kiss-you-sober_ thing?” Ian asks, drawing Mickey’s attention back to him.

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” Mickey says, raising his eyebrows. “You kissed me first, so how ‘bout you tell me?”

“Okay,” Ian agrees, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, I kissed you because I was drunk.”

Mickey nods. “There you go, then. Me too.”

“But I’ve been wanting to anyway,” Ian admits on a sharp exhale of breath. “Been thinking about it a lot. So I guess I’ve been afraid to do it sober, yeah.”

Mickey feels his throat going dry.

Somehow, he hadn’t considered the fact that Ian might be feeling something for him too. Something more than just wanting to fuck around for the sake of fucking. 

Ian cannot possibly have fucking feelings for him. What the fuck happened to _twenty-four hours and done?_ Ian talked him into that shit to begin with. It had been Ian’s stupid ass idea all along.

“What the fuck are you thinkin’ about shit like that for, anyway?” Mickey asks, his voice wavering just enough to give him away. “Why the fuck do you wanna kiss me at all?”

Ian frowns, narrowing his eyes. “Jesus. Just forget it, okay?” 

He gets off the couch suddenly, grabbing his water bottle to chug the rest of it as he walks towards the kitchen. Mickey follows him without missing a beat, despite everything within him insisting that he should just fucking let it go.

Mickey grabs his shoulder, and Ian turns back to him easily, almost like he was waiting for him.

“I just can’t keep going on like this,” Ian says, his voice quiet. “So there’s your answer, okay?”

There’s no confidence or boldness to him right now, just an intense vulnerability that Mickey truly doesn’t know what the fuck to do with.

“You’re not an idiot, Mickey. You don’t need me to tell you why.”

That’s pretty fucking arguable, because Mickey certainly feels like an idiot right now.

When Mickey says nothing, Ian continues. “I’m sorry for making shit weird, okay? It’s not gonna happen again.”

The weight tugging at Mickey’s heartstrings is nearly unbearable. They can’t do this. They just fucking can’t. But Mickey needs to tell him the truth. At the very least, he owes Ian his honesty.

“Ian, you’re not makin’ shit weird.”

Ian huffs, shaking his head. He turns away from Mickey again, pouring a cup of coffee for himself. 

“I’m fuckin’ serious,” Mickey says again. 

Ian doesn’t look at him, still facing the counter. He remains quiet as he takes a drink from his mug.

“It won’t be weird unless you go makin’ shit weird, man. Will you just fuckin’ look at me?” Mickey asks, trying to plead with him. 

Still nothing.

Fine. Mickey decides to jump.

“Fuck’s sake, Ian. I like you too,” Mickey confesses, his heart thumping faster in his chest. “Fuckin’ obvious, ain’t it?”

Ian finally turns around, studying Mickey’s face.

“ _Obvious?”_ Ian asks incredulously. “You wouldn’t talk to me for _days_ after we hooked up, and you expect me to think it’s fucking obvious?”

Fucking hell, Ian must be blind. Mickey has been fucking infatuated with him for weeks now, spending every last drop of his energy just trying to keep his goddamn feelings in check. He’s definitely not that good of a fucking actor. Or maybe Ian is just that clueless. 

“Fuck off, Gallagher,” Mickey snaps, his frustration rapidly increasing. “Why the _fuck_ did you wanna bang in the first place if you knew you had fuckin’ feelings for me? With all that no strings attached bullshit.”

“I don’t know, Mickey. Why the fuck did you _agree_ to bang if you knew you had feelings for me?” Ian says, shoving roughly at Mickey’s shoulders.

Mickey swears he sees red flashing before his eyes. He pushes Ian back, shoving him hard into the counter. Ian throws his hands back to brace himself, sending his coffee cup tumbling to the ground. It shatters instantly, coffee spilling out across the floor.

“ _Fuck,”_ Ian groans. “Way to go, asshole.”

Mickey takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll get a fucking broom.”

This is so stupid. What the fuck are they even fighting about? Keeping their feelings a secret? Mickey feels like a fucking five-year-old. When he returns with the broom, Ian has already wiped up some of the excess coffee with a washcloth. He steps aside so Mickey can sweep the glass into the dustpan. 

“Shove me again and you’re gonna get a fist to the face,” Mickey says indignantly. “You hear me?”

“Bullshit,” Ian says. He rolls his eyes, cleaning up the final remnants of coffee once the glass is swept away. “You really gonna punch me?”

“Depends. You gonna fuckin’ push me again?” Mickey asks, although it’s rhetorical. He dumps the broken glass into the trash.

Ian clicks his tongue. “ _Depends._ You gonna stop pissing me off?”

“Doubt it,” Mickey quips.

He tosses the dustpan aside, watching as Ian pours two more cups of coffee. 

“No shit,” Ian agrees. He hands Mickey the second cup, meeting his eyes with some apprehension. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says hesitantly as he takes the coffee from Ian.

He moves to the center island, hopping up to sit on top of the counter across from where Ian is standing.

“Remember how we said we weren’t gonna fight anymore?” Ian asks, any trace of anger now gone from his voice. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says with a nod. “Lotta fuckin’ good that did, hm?”

“Just—let me say this,” Ian begins. “I didn’t realize I had fucking feelings for you when I asked you to do the twenty-four hour thing. I’m not a complete idiot, okay? I didn’t mean to complicate shit for us.”

“Feelings always fuckin’ complicate things,” Mickey says. He sighs, mustering up the courage to be honest. “I didn’t know I wanted more at first, either.”

“You want more now?” Ian asks, almost eagerly, and Mickey feels his pulse quickening.

“Don’t think we can,” Mickey says simply.

He had a reason.

What the fuck was his reason? 

Ian nods, but he’s still looking at Mickey with curiosity. “Why’s that, again?” 

“Come on, Ian. I told you I don’t do relationship shit.”

“But you _like_ me,” Ian says, leaning back against the counter as he stares at Mickey intently. “You have a big, fat fucking crush on me. Right?”

“Fuck _off,_ ” Mickey groans, tearing his gaze away from Ian in favor of sipping more of his coffee.

He knows he’s blushing, which is absolutely fucking infuriating, and he hopes that Ian doesn’t notice.

“Just asking,” Ian shrugs, but his lips are curving into something of a smirk. He no longer appears nervous or unsure. “You do realize this shit we’re doing now is basically like being in a relationship anyway, right?”

Mickey snorts. “How the fuck do you figure that?”

Ian starts counting off on his fingers. “One, we already live together. Two, we fight all the fucking time. Three, we’ve already fucked a few times, so.”

“Not the same thing,” Mickey argues.

Ian walks across the kitchen to where Mickey is sitting on the counter, looking into his eyes as he moves to stand in between his legs.

It’s bold as fuck, and Mickey can’t process it fast enough to move before Ian’s hands are on either side of Mickey’s hips. It feels like every drop of blood in Mickey’s body is rushing out of his brain and into his fucking groin as Ian grips onto him. 

“We have six weeks left, Mickey. If you’re afraid of commitment, if you’re afraid to let yourself be with someone, now’s the fucking time to do it anyway. What do you have to lose?”

Mickey doesn’t know how to say it.

 _Ian_. He has Ian to lose, and the thought fucking terrifies him. But he’s right. He’s fucking right, and Mickey is already fucking falling so hard that it doesn’t matter where he lands.

With Ian, without Ian, he can’t hide from this.

Especially when it’s standing so stubbornly between his fucking legs.

“You’re the most stubborn motherfucker I’ve ever met,” Mickey says. 

Ian smiles that beautiful fucking smile, and Mickey surrenders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	8. Week 6 + Week 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, friends! For starters, I changed my username from fuckyoufrank to IanRightsOnly. Still me, though.
> 
> After two weeks and about 6800 words later, this chapter is finally complete. I would love to hear your feedback, and I'd also love to know how you think the rest of this story will unfold. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and being patient! I'm very invested in giving each chapter a certain degree of integrity, and sometimes that means it may take me two weeks instead of one :)
> 
> Also, the opening scene picks up directly from the end of "Week 5" - in case you need a refresher from the previous chapter!

Week 6 + Week 7

Mickey would love to say that his and Ian’s descent into romance had begun in an epic moment of all-encompassing passion, but in the midst of a very hindering hangover, it certainly was not. 

The kiss was fucking great until it wasn’t, because Ian pulled back right when Mickey was getting the fuck into it, face scrunched up with a rush of hangover-induced nausea. After Mickey made a joke about his mouth being grotesque to the point of illness, he hopped down from the counter and dragged Ian to his own bedroom and ordered that he get into bed. 

He retrieved Ian’s pillow and blanket from the couch before only semi-awkwardly climbing into bed next to him. 

“Sleep it off, Ian. We’ll talk later,” Mickey told him quietly, running a hand through his unruly hair.

No, it may not have been a fucking storybook moment, but the fluttering in Mickey’s stomach remained all the same.

* * *

Ian isn’t beside him when Mickey wakes up later that evening. He hears the distinct sound of the shower running, registering that Ian must have at least felt good enough to get out of bed. Mickey feels noticeably well-rested, last night’s alcohol effectively out of his system after a full day of sleep. He rubs at his eyes as Ian returns through the bedroom door, and Mickey offers him a sleepy smile. 

“Took a shower,” Ian announces as if it’s a very impressive milestone. “Even brushed my teeth.”

Mickey cares more about the fact that he’s wearing nothing but a black towel wrapped low around his hips, but he decides to keep his mouth shut.

“‘Bout time,” Mickey says, sitting up to stretch his arms out over his head.

Ian makes his way over to Mickey, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He looks at Mickey, unease evident in his expression, and Mickey can tell that he’s embarrassed. 

“Y’know, that shit I did this morning was supposed to be sexy,” Ian says after a moment.

Mickey snorts. “It was plenty fuckin’ sexy until you almost hurled.” 

“Can I have a do-over?” Ian asks, leaning down on his side and resting his head in his hand.

Fucking tease. Mickey’s eyes dart down Ian’s body, paying extra attention to his hip bones peeking out from under the towel. Ian is grinning when Mickey meets his eyes. 

“You stay the fuck here,” Mickey points to him threateningly, whipping off the blanket to jump out of Ian’s bed. “I’m gonna brush my fuckin’ teeth. Don’t move.”

Ian raises an eyebrow as Mickey darts out of the room and into the bathroom across the hall. 

Mickey doesn’t have the decency to pretend he’s not eager to do this, but he at least wants to freshen the fuck up first. He splashes some water on his face; grabs his toothbrush for a very vigorous session of tooth brushing. He’s nearly done when Ian appears in the doorway, meeting Mickey’s eyes through the mirror and sauntering up behind him.

“What d’you think I fuckin’ meant when I told you to stay the fuck in bed?” Mickey asks around his toothbrush, breaking their eye contact to spit into the sink.

“You’re taking too long,” Ian says simply. He wraps his arms around Mickey’s waist, resting his chin on Mickey’s shoulder as their eyes lock back on each other’s reflection. 

“Been gone for less than two minutes,” Mickey retorts quickly. 

“Too long,” Ian repeats, turning his head to drag his tongue along the side of Mickey’s neck. He finds the hem of Mickey’s tank top, sliding a hand under the fabric and up his stomach. 

Mickey drops the toothbrush into the sink.

It’s boldly provocative in a way that gets desire rushing fast through Mickey’s body; Ian’s tongue hot on Mickey’s skin enough to leave his hair standing on end. Mickey stares at Ian through the mirror, lets out a sharp breath as Ian grabs his shirt with his other hand and lifts Mickey’s arms easily to tug it over his head. 

Before Mickey’s shirt even hits the ground, Ian is pulling at his hips to spin him around until they’re facing each other. He leans down to kiss Mickey almost instantly, hands roaming up Mickey’s back as Mickey grabs for him frantically. His waning self control is nearly ready to snap, and he has absolutely no interest in taking shit slow right now. 

“Fuckin’ want you,” Mickey gasps against Ian’s parted lips. “Been fightin’ this shit for almost two weeks.”

Ian tugs Mickey’s bottom lip playfully between his teeth. He presses a chaste kiss to Mickey’s mouth then, smiling into it with a humming noise. 

“And whose fault is _that_ _?_ ” Ian teases.

He kisses him again. And again.

“Fuck off,” Mickey mumbles, unable to fight back his smile when Ian licks into his mouth. 

"No,” Ian says against Mickey’s lips. He moves to trail open-mouthed kisses across Mickey’s neck before whispering into his ear, “Think I’d rather fuck _you_.”

Jesus Christ. Ian would win an award for his cringey dirty talk if it wasn’t turning Mickey the fuck on.

“You get your dirty talk from low-budget porn?” Mickey manages to ask, biting his lip as Ian sucks a mark into the skin of his neck.

Ian drops a hand down to the front of Mickey’s boxers, palming at his cock through the fabric. Mickey gasps, clutching onto Ian’s arm.

“Sure feels like you’re into it,” Ian says, working steady pressure against him.

Of fucking course he’s into it. Another award for stating the fucking obvious while still managing to get Mickey fucking going. 

Mickey wants him and he wants him now. 

All over him. On top of him.

Inside of him.

Mickey fucking needs him.

“No shit I’m into it,” Mickey growls, pressing his body flush against Ian’s. He shoves Ian backwards until Ian’s back hits the bathroom door. “You gonna fuckin’ do something about it?”

Ian nods, reaching around to dip both hands beneath the waistband of Mickey’s boxers, grabbing onto his ass. He leans down to kiss Mickey’s mouth again, slipping his tongue past Mickey’s lips as Mickey reaches up to wrap his arms around his neck. Mickey feels his heart beating faster, moaning into Ian’s mouth as Ian manages to slide his boxers down over his hips. 

Mickey runs his hands down from Ian’s neck in a frenzy, helping to push his boxers further down his legs as they fall to the ground, bunching up around his feet. He reaches for Ian’s towel, fumbling to unwrap it with shaky hands before tossing it to the bathroom floor.

He pulls back from Ian just enough to look up into his eyes, dark and lidded with very evident desire. Ian is breathing heavily, lips parted as he stares back at Mickey. Mickey lets his fingers brush over Ian’s cock then, his stomach clenching at the desperate noise that falls from Ian’s mouth. He brushes his thumb over the head, feeling as it leaks out onto his hand.

Fuck, Mickey wants to taste him. His own arousal is making his head spin; an eager ache within his belly becoming increasingly desperate to feel Ian’s cock inside of him. He kind of wants to suck him off, kind of wants to jerk him until he’s begging for release, but he _mostly_ wants to get fucking plowed because it’s been two weeks of this bullshit and he deserves a goddamn fucking medal for lasting this long.

Mickey tightens his grip around Ian, moving his fist up and down at a deliberately slow pace and watching as Ian’s head falls back against the door. His neck is exposed, face scrunched up with overwhelming pleasure, and Mickey can’t resist as he leans in to suck at the exposed skin around Ian’s throat.

Ian moans a little louder and Mickey can tell he’s fucking loving this. His body is tense like he’s fighting to keep his composure, but Mickey is having a good fucking time attempting to make him unwind. He increases the speed around Ian’s cock, and Ian gasps before reaching out to grab Mickey’s arm. He stops his movements; grabs Mickey’s waist and kisses him again while backing him out of the bathroom. 

They don’t make it far before Ian is slamming Mickey against the wall beside his bedroom door, biting at his neck and shoving his hands back down to Mickey’s ass.

Call it whatever the fuck you want, but Mickey fucking loves being manhandled and holy fuck this is _really_ working for him. His cock is throbbing and he’s ready to let Ian do absolutely anything to him, as long as it involves getting good and fucked the way his body is craving.

“Want you,” Mickey gasps, nails dragging down Ian’s back. Ian hums into his neck, digging his fingers hard into the meat of Mickey’s ass. 

“Tell me what you want,” Ian says. “Gonna make it good for you.”

Mickey would like to point out that absolutely fucking _anything_ would be good for him, and he's about to get down on his knees to start fucking begging. He feels his own cock wet against Ian’s thigh where they’re pressed together, and for fuck‘s sake, they need to get to a fucking bed before Mickey blows his load from thinking about it.

“Want you to get the fuck inside me,” Mickey says, frowning when Ian removes his hands and takes a few steps away from him.

He holds out his hands for Mickey to take a moment later, guiding him across the hall and into his bedroom. 

“Such a sweet talker,” Ian says with a smirk, pulling Mickey back into him as he pushes the door closed behind them. 

“I _am_ known to be real fuckin’ charming,” Mickey smiles, raising his eyebrows. 

It’s meant to be a joke, but Mickey is certainly doing something right judging by the way he’s got Ian hanging on his every word. Ian is back on him instantly, tongue in his mouth and hands running roughly down his body.

They fall onto Ian’s bed together with clumsy enthusiasm, rolling across the blanket until Mickey gets Ian pinned beneath him, his thighs straddling each side of Ian’s hips. Ian is laughing, a little breathless as he runs a hand through his own hair, staring up at Mickey like he never wants to look away. 

“I think you’re more charming than you realize,” Ian says, a sultry edge to his tone that leaves Mickey feeling a little flushed.

He reaches up to wrap his eager hands around Mickey’s neck, pulling him down until their lips are slotting back together.

Mickey grinds his hips down against Ian, kissing him a little harder when he feels Ian’s hands quickly moving down from his neck down to his ass. He grabs onto each cheek, pulling them apart before sliding a finger in between. 

“ _Fu_ _ck,”_ Mickey says against Ian’s lips, pushing back against Ian’s finger. “You gotta stop with the teasing.”

“Mmm,” Ian hums into Mickey’s mouth. “Can’t. You make it so easy.”

Mickey groans, because Ian is taking all of this at an agonizingly slow pace and it’s certainly not Mickey’s goddamn fault that Ian is making him so impatiently horny. You don’t dangle a bone in front of a starving dog and expect the dog to not want to fucking eat it.

Mickey needs to get this shit fucking moving, whether Ian chooses to keep the fuck up or not. He sits up suddenly, one hand bracing his weight on Ian’s chest as he reaches across the bed in an attempt to reach the bottle of lube from the bedside table.

As soon as Mickey grabs it, Ian is swiping it from Mickey’s grasp without missing a beat. He wiggles it in Mickey’s face with a smirk, yanking his arm away when Mickey tries to snatch it back.

“Real funny, bitch,” Mickey growls, trying to grab the bottle back. “Gonna fuck me with those fingers or make me do it my fuckin’ self?”

The answer is a very rewarding fuck _yes_ to the former option, much to Mickey’s satisfaction. Ian pops the bottle open and slicks a generous amount of lube over his fingers, returning to slide them back between Mickey’s cheeks. 

Mickey is grinding back against Ian’s hand as soon as he feels him there, stroking and tempting Mickey in the most deliciously filthy way. Ian sinks his index finger slowly into him after another second, drawing a moan from his throat when he starts moving it in a circular motion.

“ _Shit,_ Ian. Keep fuckin’ going.”

Ian nods, adding a second digit. He rotates both fingers together, watching attentively as Mickey bites down on his bottom lip. He reaches up with his free hand to pull Mickey back down to him, kissing him again as Mickey falls down easily against his chest. He moans from the shift in their position, trying desperately to get Ian’s fingers deeper inside. 

“Fuck, Mickey. Love how much you love this.”

“Want another,” Mickey urges, running his hands along Ian’s chest. 

Ian obliges, a third finger joining the others as he continues to work Mickey open. Mickey sighs, pressing down harder on Ian’s hand, a spark of pleasure shooting through his body when Ian brushes against his prostate. 

Jesus Christ, Mickey has fucking had _enough,_ and Ian gets his message loud and clear when Mickey reaches back to grab Ian’s wrist. 

“You wanna get fucked, Mickey?” Ian asks, fingers trailing up and down his lower back. 

Mickey smirks as he sits back up, rocking his hips down against Ian’s. He wraps a hand around Ian’s cock, giving it a few lazy tugs as Ian digs his nails into Mickey’s skin.

“You could ride me,” Ian suggests, his voice getting caught in a moan as Mickey continues fisting his cock. “ _Or_ I could fuck your needy ass into the mattress. Know you love that shit.”

It feels like Mickey is getting shocked with electricity, the way Ian’s words spread through his body like a wildfire.

Yes, Mickey had every fucking intention of riding him, but he feels his resolve slipping fast; like he wants to completely submit in favor of letting Ian take control. 

“Tell me,” Ian encourages, his voice low.

Mickey releases his grip on Ian’s cock, breath catching in his throat as their eyes lock together. Ian shuffles until he’s sitting upright, face to face with Mickey. 

“I—” Mickey trails off, breathing heavily as he tries to make Ian understand. 

This is new for him. He doesn’t know how to _ask_ for it. He’s not embarrassed about it; not really, but searching for an articulate way to tell Ian that he wants to completely hand over the reins is a tremendously intimate request.

Ian puts a hand on the side of Mickey’s face suddenly, almost like he’s trying to get him to focus. He smiles softly, reassuringly, and while it does nothing to temper Mickey’s desires, it does remind Mickey that he’s safe. 

“Can you show me?” Ian asks quietly, brushing his thumb gently across Mickey’s cheek. 

Yeah, Mickey can fucking show him.

He leans forward to kiss Ian again, deepening it instantly with his tongue. He starts to lean back, wants Ian to follow him until he’s completely trapped under his body. Ian gets it, and when Mickey’s back hits the mattress Ian is on him like a magnet, pressing every inch of his body down against him.

Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s neck, gasping when Ian grabs onto each of his thighs to hike his legs up around his waist. _Fuck,_ yes. That’s exactly what he wants. And he wants so much fucking more of it.

Ian looks down at him like he’s searching Mickey’s face for more guidance, and Mickey nods as he rocks up against him. 

Ian smiles, leaning down to kiss Mickey’s neck. He fumbles with the bottle of lube, coating his cock with a liberal amount before wiping the excess onto the blanket. He returns his hands to Mickey’s thighs a moment later, stroking his fingers along his skin before gripping onto them roughly. 

Mickey wonders if Ian maybe has a _thing_ for them. He kind of fucking hopes so.

“Doing real good, Mick,” Ian whispers into his ear. “So fucking good.”

Oh, okay, that’s fucking hot. Mickey tightens his legs around Ian’s waist, tilting his head to the side to find his mouth again. Ian kisses him hard, shuffling his hips until he’s sliding his cock against Mickey’s ass, lining himself up to sink slowly inside.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey breathes out, pushing his hips off the bed to help Ian inch deeper into him.

He bottoms out with a heavy sigh, using his grip on Mickey’s thighs as leverage to pull back just a little, looking at Mickey for any kind of reaction.

Of course, Mickey’s reaction is nothing short of pure fucking bliss as he adjusts, feeling like he’s being filled to the fucking brim. It’s the most gratifying fucking sensation, having Ian buried to the hilt, so fucking thick and deep and ready to take him. 

God, he wants Ian to fucking take all of him.

“Fuckin’ big,” Mickey gasps, rotating his hips to the side a little. He’s blushing down his neck and chest, fisting the blanket as Ian pulls out further, pushing back in with a little more force. 

“How’s that feel, Mick?” Ian purrs, slipping his tongue back into Mickey’s mouth as Mickey starts kissing back eagerly.

“Feels good,” Mickey murmurs against Ian’s lips, rocking roughly up against him. 

Ian gets the idea, begins thrusting into him a little bit faster. Mickey moans loudly, jerking his head back onto his pillow as Ian continues to build his momentum.

_Yes. Holy fuck, yes._

“ _Harder,_ ” Mickey begs, nudging at Ian’s side with his leg. 

Ian groans, breathing sharply against Mickey’s mouth. He fucks into him with more force, banging the headboard into the wall. 

As he fucking should. Mickey thinks he might start gauging his fucks by headboard hitting standards. 

So far, Ian has a perfect score. 

“Fuck, _Mickey.”_

God, hearing Ian moaning his name makes his stomach clench tight. He’s not gonna last much longer at this rate and while part of him is craving release, the other part thinks it’s a damn fucking shame that this can’t last forever.

Ian grabs one of Mickey’s legs to pull it up higher, holding him behind his knee as he changes the angle just enough to hit his prostate. Again, and _again_. 

Mickey fucking whimpers, scratching his dull nails down Ian’s back as Ian bites down harshly on his neck. He reaches around to grab onto Mickey’s hip with his free hand, controlling their movements as he continues to fuck him, fingers digging into his hip hard enough to bruise. 

Mickey fucking hopes they do. 

Ian speeds up, the beads of sweat along his face and neck starting to make his hair curl a little more at the sides. Mickey struggles to look at him; his disheveled, focused appearance driving Mickey fucking wild.

“Moan for me, Mickey.”

 _Fuck._ Mickey feels the pressure building quickly in his groin. He moans louder, so fucking turned on as Ian fucks into him over and over.

God, he fucking loves that Ian likes to hear him.

“So good, Mickey,” Ian whispers against his ear, his breath stuttering. “You take it so fuckin’ good.”

Jesus _Christ._ And on the subject of liking things, he fucking loves when Ian talks to him like this. He likes knowing that Ian is loving this just as much as he is. 

Ian stills his hips for a moment, pulling Mickey from his thoughts as he hits deep inside, holding his position and squeezing onto the back of Mickey’s leg. He pulls out a second later, and Mickey swear he’s going to start shouting angry fucking profanities until Ian throws both of Mickey’s legs up over his shoulders, holding onto him by the backs of his thighs as he starts pounding back into him. 

Mickey feels like his vision goes blurry, throwing his head back and fucking _shouting_ because that hard hitting pressure against his prostate is fucking explosive and he can’t hold back anymore. He feels his thighs shaking where Ian is gripping them, a steady stream of noises spilling helplessly from his lips as a gut-wrenching orgasm rips through his entire body. Ian follows him quickly, digging his fingers hard into Mickey’s thighs as he comes inside of him, head thrown back in complete and total fucking ecstasy. 

It feels like winning the fucking lottery, and Mickey watches Ian’s expression until he fucking can’t anymore, eyes falling shut as a very fucked out, satisfied smile spreads wide across Mickey’s face. Ian pulls out and falls down beside him, a layer of sweat covering his entire body. Mickey hears him laugh, and it forces him to open his eyes and look at the man lying beside him.

God, if Mickey wasn’t so fucking exhausted, he swears he’d be getting hard again.

Because Ian looks like an absolute fucking _mess_ and it’s all because of Mickey. Mickey fucking did that to him. He’s got a hand combing through his sweaty hair, a few marks on his neck from Mickey’s greedy mouth.

The result of Mickey’s very victorious orgasm is currently drying on Ian’s chest, and just when he thinks it’s safe to look away, Ian drags two fingers through Mickey’s come and brings them up to his lips to slide into his mouth.

He looks directly at Mickey as he sucks them clean, desire flashing behind his green eyes, and Mickey shakes his head as a warning. He’s still smiling because he can’t fucking help it, and when Ian finally removes his fingers, a very coquettish smirk follows in their absence.

They’ll sleep eventually, Mickey is at least ninety-five percent certain of that, as he lifts himself up just enough to meet Ian’s lips in another kiss.

* * *

For what it’s worth, Mickey finds that after weeks of fighting to keep his feelings for Ian at bay, it’s extraordinarily fucking satisfying to finally let himself yield to them. He doesn’t have to hide anything. He can let himself feel. He can let himself want. 

It feels like a kind of freedom that Mickey has never known.

And he fucking loves it. 

He loves the way that it’s allowing him to feel like himself. He loves the fact that he’s learning things about himself that he never fucking knew because he never _had_ this before.

He’s never known how incredible it feels to fall asleep in the arms of someone who he actually cares about; in the arms of someone who actually cares about him, too. He’s never known the feeling of waking up with them the following morning, skin to skin, like everything is okay just because they’re with you.

Before now, Mickey never had any of this, and it’s both incredible and bittersweet all at the same time. 

After about a week, they still haven’t exactly put a label on what they’re doing, but Mickey figures it’s better if they don’t. Being together is enough, and especially under the circumstances, trying to label it is fucking frustrating and confusing. And it’s better that they just leave it alone. 

They like each other. A lot.

So much that Mickey has found himself just fucking blurting it out on more than one occasion, earning the most brilliant fucking smile from Ian every single time.

And that’s exactly it. It’s Ian’s smile, and Ian’s eyes. It’s the little things about Ian that Mickey finds so completely irresistible. 

It’s the way Ian kisses his cheek when he brings him his coffee in the morning, and the way Ian holds him on the couch when it’s late into the night and they’re too tired to move to the bedroom. 

Time starts to feel like it’s moving faster, and maybe it’s because Mickey feels like he has something to live for again.

The days aren’t really blurring together as much as they are speeding by, and Mickey wishes he could suspend their moments somewhere in time. He wishes he could make them last forever.

He just wants to live like this a while longer, before reality catches up to them. 

He hopes that maybe it never will.

Because Mickey can run from a lot of things, but he can’t run from this.

Ian is making him long for a life beyond the walls of their building, beyond the confines of a broken world that isn’t meant for them anymore. 

Ian has him hoping for a second chance. 

But right now, Mickey decides that it’s easier to forget about the bad stuff. Right now, Ian is making it easy for Mickey to tune out everything about the world that isn’t the two of them together.

For now, that’s okay. For now, Ian has Mickey and Mickey has Ian. And as far as Mickey is concerned, there isn’t anything else in the fucking world that matters more than that.

* * *

Midway into their seventh week, an incessant knocking on Mickey’s bedroom door wakes him from a very rewarding session of late afternoon napping.

He groans, eyes barely half open as he tries to bring himself to full consciousness. He assumes it’s Ian, because who the fuck else would it be? Except for the fact that Ian has absolutely no reason to waste energy knocking on Mickey’s door. As if they haven’t been waking up entangled in one another every single day for nearly two weeks now.

The knocking continues, and Mickey rolls out of bed. His feels like a groggy mess, and that braindead feeling is the only part about napping that he really can’t fucking stand. 

“ _Jesus_. Hold the fuck on,” he grumbles as he trudges his way to the door.

He opens it to find Ian standing there, and after staring at him for a moment, Mickey registers that he’s wearing a nice, red button-down shirt tucked into a pair of dark jeans. Casual, yeah, but also pretty fucking dressed up for their standards.

Mickey can’t remember the last time he wore jeans or saw Ian wearing anything besides sweatpants, or less.

But, wow. He looks fucking good.

“The fuck is this?” Mickey asks, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. “You late for a hot date?”

“Kind of,” Ian smiles. “Get dressed.”

Mickey blinks at him. 

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?” Mickey asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Not sure if you’re into flowers, but I don’t exactly _have_ any of those, so. You’re gonna have to settle for just me,” Ian shrugs. “Get dressed, Mick. We’re going on a fucking date.”

Mickey has no idea what the fuck Ian is smoking, because they obviously can’t go fucking _anywhere_ , much less on a date. 

"How the fuck are we supposed to do that, Casanova?” 

“You told me you’ve never been on a date,” Ian explains. “So, I’m asking you out. Right here, tonight. And I already made dinner for us, so I’m not really _asking_. Even opened a bottle of champagne from the liquor cabinet.”

“I don’t drink champagne,” Mickey says stupidly, mostly because Ian’s got him feeling so mystified that he doesn’t know what the fuck to say. And Ian is smiling at him so brightly that Mickey feels like he’s heating up from the inside out.

“You do tonight,” Ian says simply.

Okay, fine.

That certainly wasn’t much of an argument.

Ian grabs the doorknob then, pulling it back towards him until it’s almost closed. “Get dressed,” he repeats with a smile before shutting it the rest of the way. 

Mickey stands there, utterly bewildered as he stares at the door for a few seconds. Yeah, he did tell Ian that he had never been on a date, but he certainly wasn’t expecting Ian to do anything about it. Mickey doesn’t really know how the fuck to react to any of this, because it’s actually really fucking thoughtful and Mickey can’t even tease Ian for being a sap because he’s too busy feeling fucking _smitten._

God, what the fuck is happening to him. 

He pulls out a bluish-gray button-down, similar to Ian’s red one, along with a pair of jeans. It’s probably the nicest outfit he owns, and he figures it’ll do just fine as he heads into the bathroom. He combs his hair, brushes his teeth, and gets dressed. He even sprays on a touch of cologne from a bottle that’s been otherwise untouched for weeks.

Mickey Milkovich getting ready for a date? Yeah, it only took the world collapsing the fuck in on itself to make that shit happen.

Taking a moment to consider his reflection in the mirror, Mickey tucks his shirt into his jeans and straightens out the wrinkles towards the bottom. He feels _nervous_ , full-blown fucking butterflies in his stomach for absolutely no reason; like Ian didn’t wake him up earlier this morning with neck kisses and a hand rubbing against his fucking ass.

When Mickey finally exits the bathroom, he makes his way to the kitchen following the mouthwatering smell of Ian’s cooking. Ian has his head in the refrigerator, digging around for fuck knows what, completely oblivious to Mickey’s presence. There are two plates filled with spaghetti and meatballs set on the counter, a bottle of champagne with two glasses and a candle burning between them. 

It takes Ian another moment to notice Mickey standing there. He smiles at him instantly, holding out a hand for Mickey to take. Mickey hesitates as he looks down at Ian’s outstretched hand, fighting aside his reservations before reaching out and slotting their fingers together.

“You didn’t have to do this shit,” Mickey says, knowing damn well that his eyes are giving him away. “You don’t owe me anything, you know?“

“Just wanted to do something nice for you,” Ian offers with a smile. He pulls Mickey in, kissing him softly on the cheek. “ _Plus_ , I thought we deserved to actually have a first date.”

Mickey feels himself blushing far beyond his control. He’s eating this shit up like candy, smiling a very doting grin by the time Ian pulls back. Maybe the craziest part about humoring Ian with this date bullshit is how much Mickey actually fucking likes it.

Ian releases his hand in favor of handing him a champagne glass, clinking Mickey’s glass against his own. 

“Here’s to us still being alive,” Ian says. “And being alive together.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” Mickey chuckles. “Even though I still don’t drink fuckin’ champagne.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’ll drink the fucking champagne tonight, okay?”

Mickey nods, tipping his head back to chug down half of the glass, surprised to find that he doesn’t actually hate it. Who knew that he’d be developing such fancy ass tastes here at the tail-end of his existence?

“Not bad,” Mickey assesses with a shrug. “This how you get your dates to sleep with you?”

Ian shakes his head, sipping from his own glass. “You say that like you’re assuming I put out on a first date.”

Mickey snorts. “Well, _excuse_ me. Guess I’ll be workin’ for that shit at the end of the night.”

“Guess so,” Ian smirks. “Don’t think you’ll have to work too hard, though.”

Mickey chuckles, grinning at Ian before quickly downing the rest of his champagne.

He grabs the bottle to pour himself another glass, passing it across the counter for Ian to do the same. They eat in companionable silence for quite some time; the comfort of a home-cooked spaghetti dinner tasting far better than anything Mickey has eaten in a long time.

They trade jokes and stories back and forth while finishing their meals, a continuous flow of champagne leaving Mickey pleasantly buzzed by the time they’ve cleaned their plates. He notices Ian finishing off the second bottle of champagne ( _from_ the bottle), bringing his fist to his mouth to stifle a burp.

He glances at Mickey before laughing behind his hand, tossing the bottle into the trash. He’s clearly got a good buzz going, too, and Mickey really fucking loves seeing him smile. 

He doesn’t want him to ever _stop_ smiling.

Mickey swears that he’d be rolling his eyes at this shit if it were anybody else, but Ian is just too damn endearing. He never had a fucking chance. And it certainly didn’t take a lavishly planned date night for Mickey to start feeling captivated by Ian’s charm. 

Because yeah, Ian cooked them a romantic dinner. And yeah, Ian made them drink fancy alcohol from a bottle that he can’t fucking pronounce the name of. And sure, Ian may clean up real fucking good while having the fucking _audacity_ to make Mickey dress the fuck up, too. But at the end of the day? Ian is so completely, unapologetically Ian and there are no pretenses for either of them to be anything other than what they are.

Mickey likes that about him. 

Mickey really fucking likes _everything_ about him.

There’s just something about him. Fuck, there’s so much about him. Mickey has never fucking felt like this about anyone and he doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

It’s overwhelming and thrilling and a little bit scary all at once. 

More than anything, he can’t help but wonder if Ian is feeling all of those things, too.

* * *

It’s later into the evening when Mickey finds himself resting on Ian’s chest, sprawled out on Ian’s bed with their legs tangled together beneath the blankets. The lights are off, the room illuminated only by several candles lined up along the dresser. They’ve changed into sweats and comfy t-shirts, climbing into bed shortly after watching a movie together on the couch. Mickey may have spent more time in Ian’s lap than he did actually looking at the television, but that’s nobody’s fucking business anyway.

They’re sharing more champagne, taking occasional swigs from the bottle set on the bedside table. Mickey feels warm and content, absently playing with Ian’s fingers while Ian runs his free hand up and down Mickey’s arm. 

“I have a confession to make,” Ian says quietly after a few minutes of serene silence, his thumb brushing back and forth across Mickey’s.

Mickey tilts his head back against Ian’s shoulder to look into his eyes, threading their fingers together. “Yeah? What’s that?”

Ian smiles, moving his hand just enough to trace along the tattoos on Mickey’s fingers. “I’m not actually much of a date guy,” he admits.

“No shit?” Mickey asks, eyes dropping very blatantly to Ian’s lips.

He’s still at least a _little_ bit drunk and he finds that he really can’t fucking resist. 

Not that he can resist when he’s fucking sober, either. 

“No shit,” Ian repeats. He meets Mickey’s eyes for a split second before gazing down at his mouth, tongue darting out to deliberately lick his own bottom lip. 

If he’s trying to get Mickey’s attention, it’s fucking working.

“You sure coulda fooled me, Casanova. Seemed like you were really fuckin’ into all this shit,” Mickey says.

He’s staring at Ian’s lips with an unmatched level of concentration.

Ian moves to place a hand beneath Mickey’s chin, tilting his head upwards until Mickey meets his eyes. 

“Think I’m just really fucking into you,” Ian whispers. He leans in to press a chaste kiss to Mickey’s mouth, and Mickey feels like he’s sinking. “Really, really fucking into you.”

 _God._ What the fuck is it about Ian that gets Mickey tripping over cheesy ass pickup lines?

“Really fuckin’ into you, too,” Mickey mutters, grabbing for Ian’s shoulders to pull him down onto his body.

Ian goes easily, kissing Mickey a little deeper with a satisfied hum. Mickey parts his lips around Ian’s eagerly, their tongues brushing together as Mickey threads his fingers up into Ian’s hair. 

The mood is different, somehow, in a way that Mickey can’t quite explain. They still peel their clothes off relatively fast, but with much less haste than normal.

Ian’s hands are everywhere, exploring Mickey’s body with gentle finesse in place of their usual weighty pressure. He peppers soft kisses across Mickey’s neck, down his chest, over his stomach; slides his tongue up Mickey’s thigh before kissing across his hips, licking along the shaft of his cock. Ian looks up at Mickey from behind his eyelashes, and Mickey feels like his nerves are firing off beneath his skin. 

The sex feels different tonight, too.

Mickey likes it rough and he likes it fast. He likes the way Ian fucks him with absolute abandon, loves the power play that has developed so intricately between them. He likes when Ian takes control, speaking filthy words of encouragement as Mickey deepthroats his cock. He likes to be held down and restrained. He likes it when Ian gets possessive; teeth on his neck and hands gripping onto his hips while he fucks him hard. Into the mattress, against the wall, on the fucking kitchen counter. 

It’s been fucking erotic like nothing Mickey has ever experienced before. But in the very beginning, back when it was _twenty-four hours and done,_ it was based entirely on the very primal urge to fuck.

Or, at least that’s what Mickey had fucking thought. 

Mickey isn’t a fucking idiot, though. It’s not just sex anymore, and he’s known it since the moment their original agreement ended. They have feelings for one another, sure, but what the fuck does that even mean? Having a crush is one thing. Acting on impulse and attraction is one thing. 

This is starting to feel like something else, entirely.

Sex is supposed to feel good. It’s supposed to be an outlet. It’s supposed to be a release.

But Mickey’s never had it like this before. His body has never _reacted_ like this before. 

He’s never felt this kind of raw emotion before. 

There’s no urgency tonight; just Mickey and Ian, breathing together through open-mouthed kisses while Mickey’s heart threatens to beat out of his chest. He traces his hands along every dip and curve of Ian’s back, their bodies molding together as Ian fucks him deep and leisured; the steady pressure against his prostate enough to make his body tremble. Ian starts thrusting a little bit harder only when he recognizes the telltale signs that Mickey is close. He keeps the pace slow, focused more on hitting him right where he needs it, swallowing Mickey’s crescendo of moans. 

“Fucking beautiful like this,” Ian moans on an offbeat thrust, grabbing for one of Mickey’s hands to interlock their fingers together. “Fuck, _Mickey._ ”

Mickey is fucking quivering, thighs shaking as he struggles to hold on just a little bit longer. He squeezes Ian’s hand, sliding his other hand up into Ian’s hair to tug desperately at the soft strands. Ian’s words are music to Mickey’s ears, pushing him closer to the edge. Mickey’s head falls back, arching his back off the mattress as he yells out Ian’s name.

He feels it everywhere, a powerful orgasm ripping through his body, lighting up his nerves like a lightning strike. Mickey swears he sees fucking stars behind his eyes, coming apart at the seams as wave after wave of pleasure washes over him. 

Ian moans his name again, thrusting a few more times until Mickey feels him coming hard inside of him, shaking against Mickey’s sated body. 

Time slips away from Mickey as he tries to catch his breath, his boneless body melting weakly into the mattress. He’s not sure how long they stay like that, with Ian’s nose buried into his neck, still holding tightly onto his hand.

When Ian finally lifts his head, he brushes a hand through Mickey’s hair, looking into his eyes so intensely that Mickey needs to fucking kiss him just to keep from saying what he so badly finds himself wanting to say.

 _Don’t go there,_ he tells himself.

God, don’t fucking go there.

Mickey has never been well-versed in the art of romance, but he’s pretty fucking certain that it’s not candles and a date night that are suddenly making him feel this kind of thrill.

He’s never allowed himself to be vulnerable enough with someone to recognize that he wanted more. 

He’s never wanted to have every part of someone like this, or to let another person have every part of _himself._

But with Ian? With Ian, Mickey wants absolutely everything.

He feels it when Ian looks at him, and when he smiles at him from across the room. He feels it when Ian kisses him, and when they’re laughing together on the couch.

He feels it when Ian snuggles up against him as they fall asleep, and when he wakes up beside him the next morning.

At some point, over the last seven weeks, Ian started to change everything about Mickey’s world. 

At some point, over the last seven weeks, Mickey Milkovich fell in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	9. Week 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only six chapters left after this one!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has been reading since the beginning, and thank you to any new readers as well. I just want to say how much I appreciate your comments and hearing your feedback. It's incredibly encouraging and it means the world to me!

Week 8

The sun is shining brightly through the living room window as Mickey stares outside, rays of morning sunshine streaming over him. The warmth is pleasant, almost. It’s not nearly enough, and Mickey finds that after eight weeks of being stuck inside, he’s struggling to remember what it felt like to experience direct sunlight. It’s fucking depressing in the worst way, to lose touch with so many things that he once took for granted.

The streets are empty as ever, save for an occasional squirrel or bird, and Mickey really wishes that he could switch places with them right about now. He never expected to be jealous of Chicago’s wildlife, but then again, he never really expected anything about the current state of his life.

More than anything else, Mickey really just wishes he could breathe fresh air again. The windows have been sealed shut for months now, but sometimes he wonders what would happen if he just took the bull by the fucking horns and smashed the fuck through them. 

It weighs on him sometimes, the trivial bullshit that he misses about the world. He finds that it’s becoming harder and harder to remember what his life was before this. Whether that’s for better or for worse, Mickey isn’t sure.

He wonders a lot about Ian’s life, too. He knows that Ian misses his family, but he wonders what the hell Ian would be doing right now if none of this had ever happened. He thinks that Ian would probably still be working as an EMT, after listening to him talk about it for hours on end. It seems like he genuinely loved his job, like he really found himself in it. 

Mickey wishes so badly that he could give that back to him. He vaguely wishes that he could see him in his uniform, too.

There’s also a lot that Mickey wishes he could _stop_ thinking about.

Like the way he wonders if Ian misses his douchebag ex-boyfriend, or if he ever thinks about him. He wonders what they used to do together. He wonders what it was like when they fucked, no matter how much he tries to turn off his ludicrous fucking brain. Was he better in bed than Mickey? Did Ian make him come apart at every fucking seam, the way he does with Mickey? Did he make Ian feel the way Mickey does? Did he make Ian feel _better?_

He wonders if Ian would choose to be with him over Mickey, if given the option.

And it fucking hurts, because he can’t stop thinking about it, and the scenarios spread through his mind like poison. He gets that shit stuck in his head until it aches deep within his chest, like the worst kind of stab wound. There’s a voice settled into the darkest corners of his mind reminding him that Ian has no choices, no options. Of _course_ Ian started fucking Mickey, considering he had nobody else to turn to. Maybe Ian just likes the intimacy. Maybe it’s not about Mickey at all.

And Mickey finds himself so fucking worked up over it that he barges into the bathroom as Ian is brushing his teeth that morning, demanding that he tell Mickey _what the fuck he even likes about him._ Like it’s some ridiculous accusation. And Ian, absolutely bewildered, stares at Mickey with the most panicked expression that Mickey has ever seen. 

“Everything,” Ian tells him urgently. “I love _everything_ about you.”

Mickey stops dead in his tracks, staring at Ian with wide eyes. 

_Love._ The word replays in Mickey’s mind on a loop, and it suddenly feels like a bucket of water is getting dumped over his head, bringing him back to reality.

“Not sure what this is about,” Ian says admittedly as he puts his toothbrush away. “But Mickey, there isn’t a damn thing about you that I don’t fucking love.”

Mickey feels sobered, to say the fucking least. For starters, he wishes that he hadn’t barged into the bathroom in the midst of a chaos-stricken blackout. He also feels like the air is being knocked out of his chest. 

“You love _what,_ exactly?” Mickey dares to ask, holding his breath as he waits for Ian’s answer.

Ian smiles softly, looking at Mickey curiously. “Is this a trick question?”

“No, it’s not a trick fuckin’ question,” Mickey barks out. Because it fucking isn’t.

Ian takes a step closer, pulling Mickey in by his waist and settling his hands on the small of his back. He leans down to kiss Mickey on the mouth, and Mickey can’t help it as he lets himself melt against Ian’s body. The kiss is gentle, _affectionate,_ and Mickey feels it everywhere. 

“I love _you,”_ Ian says as he pulls back after a moment, bringing his hands up to rest on either side of Mickey’s face. “I fucking love you.”

_I fucking love you._

Mickey surges upwards to close the distance between them again, kissing Ian so fucking resolutely that he feels like he’s signing his life away to him. Like he fucking wishes that he could seal their lives together in this one fucking kiss, because even while his entire world is upside down, Ian is somehow keeping him grounded.

When he pulls back, Ian is looking at him so tenderly that Mickey has to look away. Except there’s Ian, one step ahead of him, lifting his chin back up so he has no fucking choice but to look up into his eyes. 

“I’m so fucking in love with you,” Ian says, more conviction in his voice. “Could have at least let me say it in a more romantic way, asshole. Like, not in the fucking bathroom.”

Mickey laughs, and he’s blushing, and he’s fucking _falling_ all at once. As if he hasn’t already been feeling too much for Ian. As if he hasn’t already made up his mind about Ian. As if he hasn’t already been spending the recent weeks of his life falling more in love with Ian every single fucking day.

It’s fucking exhilarating, and he feels like he’s teetering at the edge of a fucking cliff.

“Fuck, Ian,” he says. Hesitates. And then he dives, head-fucking-first. “I fuckin’ love you, too.”

* * *

Declarations of love have certainly never been Mickey’s forte. 

Going into this shit, if someone had seriously told Mickey that he’d end up falling for Ian, he would have wholeheartedly laughed in their fucking face. Ian, the man who was forced into his life without a choice; the man whose name Mickey didn’t even care enough to ask for. 

Fucking hilarious, really.

Mickey still doesn’t know what it is, but they click together like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like even though nothing makes sense, they make sense for each other. He never knew love before this. He never _wanted_ love before this. And yet he just fucking knows. He knows what this is. He knows what he feels. He thinks that if he came face to face with Mickey from eight weeks ago, he’d probably end up getting clocked in the fucking face for turning into a lovesick fucking sap.

But Ian. Ian feels it too. And Mickey can tell. He sees it in the way Ian looks at him. He sees it in Ian’s smile. He feels it when Ian kisses him, and in the way he holds him when they’re falling asleep together. It feels safe. It feels like home. 

Eight weeks doesn’t seem like a long time, not nearly long enough to feel like this. For fuck’s sake, Mickey used to take the absolute piss out of his brothers whenever they were unfortunate enough to catch feelings. He remembers Iggy falling for a girl so damn hard after just two weeks of banging, as if he ever knew fuck all about love. Before Mickey knew it, Iggy was moving the fuck in with her and talking about her as if she hung the fucking moon. 

And Mickey didn’t get it, then. But he gets it now. 

Now, the concept of time holds very little weight in the grand scheme of things. Eight weeks, stuck together, falling together. It somehow feels like a fucking lifetime. 

It’s still not easy, being trapped in endless confinement. But Ian certainly makes it easier. 

Mickey finds that the easiest part about all of this, the part that he’s so desperately holding onto, is the fact that Ian is with him, right by his side. Because yeah, every fucking part of this blows. And yeah, every fucking part of this is an absolute nightmare. Except for Ian.

He feels like a boomerang of emotions, trying to land somewhere between accepting their reality and ignoring it completely. Is there a good answer? Probably fucking not, and Mickey doesn’t think he can be faulted for the constant tug of war within his mind. 

As their eighth week rolls on, Mickey doesn’t know how he should be feeling. He feels confused. He wonders why the fuck he’s not sick. He wonders if maybe he _won’t_ get sick. Ian, too. Because what are the fucking odds, with just over three weeks left, that neither of them are showing any symptoms? It’s fucking unsettling, like Mickey is waiting to be the joke in a hideously unfunny punchline. 

What if they really don’t get sick? Or, what happens when they do?

The twelve-week lockdown is in place for a reason, and Mickey needs to consciously remind himself of that. Some people really _have_ taken the full twelve weeks to show any signs at all, even though it still fucks with Mickey’s mind to make sense of it. 

It’s just that every day that passes by starts to feel like a glimmer of hope coming back into focus. They’re closer to the end than they are the beginning, so what if they really, actually fucking make it to the other side? 

It’s a difficult topic to breach with Ian, and it’s probably one of the few that they are committed to avoiding. Because while it was bad enough in the beginning, it’s arguably worse now, worrying that everything they’ve built together could come crashing down at any moment.

And that’s the bitch of it, really. It’s the worst kind of paradox; knowing that this is what it took for Mickey to fall in love. It’s like he was offered love on a silver platter in exchange for the rest of his life. And Mickey fucking hates it, because he wants both. So badly. And yet it’s in this horrible, God-fucking-awful reality, that Mickey finally found somebody worth loving. Someone that actually loves him, too.

* * *

When Mickey wakes up that Saturday morning, he immediately recognizes that Ian isn’t beside him. The absence of Ian’s warmth against Mickey’s back is an instant disappointment, although it’s not completely unusual for Ian to be an early riser. Sometimes he’s freshly showered and shaved, on his second cup of coffee before Mickey even has a chance to see the light of day. 

They didn’t exactly fall asleep early, though, and Mickey is wiped the fuck out. He’s used to late nights with Ian; talking until three in the morning, drinking until they’re giddy with tipsy laughter, fucking until Mickey is too tired to keep his eyes open. And yeah, it had certainly been one of those nights. Usually, Ian would still be sound asleep behind him, face buried into Mickey’s neck. It’s the most comforting feeling, and Mickey really hates waking up without it.

As his brain becomes more conscious, Mickey recognizes the familiar smell of coffee wafting into the bedroom. It doesn’t take long before he climbs out of bed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants along with what is definitely Ian’s t-shirt from the night before. When he steps into the kitchen, he’s surprised to find that Ian isn’t there.

Usually, with a pot of freshly brewed coffee, Ian would be in the kitchen making breakfast. But he’s nowhere to be found. 

It’s not really a big deal, except that it’s different. And they’re so fucking used to doing the same goddamn thing every day, that any form of different feels a little bit alarming. 

So, Mickey calls out his name.

No response comes.

And then, Mickey starts to feel a little bit panicked. Because the shower isn’t running, and he didn’t see Ian in the living room, and the place isn’t exactly filled with secret rooms or hidden passages. The only other place to check is the unoccupied bedroom, and Mickey races towards it a little too dramatically, swinging the door open hard enough to hit the wall on the other side.

Ian jerks his head up from where he’s digging through a bag in the closet, obviously startled as he stares over at Mickey.

“Jesus, you scared me,” Ian says. He laughs a little bit, but Mickey is still trying to dismantle his panic response. Ian must notice, because he frowns after a moment. “You okay?” 

God, not fucking really. 

Mickey has no idea where that reaction came from, but it felt absolutely fucking _horrible._ Just this overwhelming sensation of full on fucking dread, and a brief moment of wondering if Ian was actually _gone_. As if it would even make sense for him to vanish into thin-fucking-air with no explanation.

“I was callin’ your fuckin’ name,” Mickey says. “Scared the shit out of me.”

Ian’s face softens immediately, and he clearly recognizes the distress in Mickey’s voice. “I didn’t hear you. Shit, Mickey. I’m sorry.”

Mickey feels himself starting to mellow out. It’s not Ian’s fault, and he’s not mad. He just doesn’t ever want to feel that again. 

Fucking ever.

“It’s okay,” Mickey says quietly.

Ian knows better, and Mickey knows that he does. He reaches the doorway where Mickey is standing, setting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. “I’m okay,” he says in earnest.

“The fuck are you doing in here, anyway?” Mickey asks, trying to derail the subject.

It’s a valid question. They haven’t slept in Mickey’s bedroom in at least a week. They’ve switched on and off a few times, but for the most part, Ian’s room has turned into Ian and Mickey’s room. And Mickey’s room has turned into somewhat of a junk room. They keep their luggage in there, although their measly backpacks are a pretty sad fucking excuse for “luggage.”

Ian holds up a yellow inhaler, shrugging. “Was looking for this. I knew it was in my bag somewhere.”

Mickey looks at the inhaler and raises his eyebrows skeptically. He hasn’t seen Ian use an inhaler once since he met him, nearly nine fucking weeks ago. 

“An inhaler?” Mickey questions. “Since when do you use a fuckin’ inhaler?”

“I don’t use it a lot,” Ian explains. “I had some asthma issues when I was a kid, but it still bothers me sometimes. Got it refilled before I came here.”

Mickey finds that he isn’t completely satisfied with that answer. 

“So, what? You’ve been fine for nine weeks and you just happen to need it again, now?” Mickey asks, trying to control his concern as it begins to rise rapidly within his chest.

Ian slips the inhaler into his pocket, grabbing onto Mickey’s other shoulder. He leans in to peck him on the cheek. 

“I’m fine,” he says calmly. “It’s just asthma, Mick.”

Mickey so badly wants Ian to be right, but how stupid would he be to think that this couldn’t be something more? His concern quickly shifts to frustration, because for the love of fucking God, Ian needs to not downplay this for Mickey’s benefit. Or for his own.

And the certainty in Ian’s voice only increases his irritation.

As if there’s no way this could be a big deal. 

As if they’re not fucking _quarantined_ for this exact reason.

“That’s bullshit, Ian.”

Mickey sees the instant shift in Ian’s expression, like he’s a little bit dumbfounded by Mickey’s words. But Mickey isn’t playing this game. The fuck is he supposed to do? It’s not like he’s going to kiss Ian’s forehead and say, _“I’m sure it’s nothing, sweetie.”_

He’s not sure about fuck all of anything, and neither is Ian.

“It’s not bullshit,” Ian argues weakly. He releases Mickey’s shoulders and takes a step away from him. “Come on, Mickey. I have the inhaler for a fucking reason.”

“Yeah, sure. An inhaler that you haven’t needed in over nine fuckin’ weeks, Ian. That shit isn’t a coincidence.” 

“Maybe it is,” Ian says stubbornly. “Just. Don’t fucking worry about it, okay?”

Mickey snorts. Yeah, that’s hilarious. _Don’t fucking worry about it._ Got it. Problem solved.

And then Mickey realizes, in a moment of unfortunate clarity, that Ian only told him any of this because he got fucking caught. If Mickey hadn’t found him rummaging through his bag, he wouldn’t have said a fucking word about it. 

“You weren’t even going to fuckin’ tell me, were you?” Mickey asks. His throat feels dry.

“Tell you _what?_ That I sometimes have fucking asthma problems? Didn’t think that was a mandatory topic of discussion,” Ian says, becoming more and more irate with every word. He turns away from Mickey quickly, storming out of the bedroom and walking towards the kitchen. 

Mickey follows, slamming the door shut behind him.

“It’s not _about_ your fuckin’ asthma, you prick. It’s about you thinkin’ you’re so above this shit. Like there’s no way you could get sick. You fuckin’ forget why we’re here, or what?”

“Oh, yeah. I fucking forgot,” Ian says as he pulls a face. “Our entire lives were uprooted and taken away from us, but yeah Mickey, I _forgot_ why the fuck we’re here.”

Mickey is nodding his head dismissively, trying to keep his temper from escalating further. He fucking hates that Ian gets his blood boiling like this. He fucking hates that they react to each other like fire and gasoline.

“Why don’t you think real hard about it until you can fuckin’ remember, okay? And while you’re at it, be sure to let me know if you think of anything else worth tellin’ me.”

And that’s that. Mickey turns away, beelines back to his old bedroom, and shuts himself inside. Because he’s fucking pissed, and maybe he’s being a little bit of a dick, but so the fuck is Ian. 

Mickey needs some fucking space. Or, maybe he doesn’t. 

Because he can’t stop staring at the door, and he realizes how badly he wants Ian to follow him. He wants Ian to barge into the room and call him a fucking douchebag. He wants to tell Ian that he’s a fucking idiot for not taking this shit seriously. Because Mickey fucking loves him and he would sell his fucking soul if it meant that Ian would be okay.

He needs Ian to get that. Really fucking get that. Mickey doesn’t do this, not with anyone. He doesn’t care about people like this, but he cares about Ian, and that’s what this is. He’s furious because he fucking cares and he needs Ian to care, too.

Fuck. The pang in his chest is suddenly unbearable. Mickey really doesn’t want to fight.

He opens the door again, surprised to find Ian standing awkwardly on the other side. They stare at each for a moment, and the dejected look on Ian’s face is nearly too much for Mickey to handle. Mickey takes a step closer to him, pulling Ian in for a hug, sighing when he leans down to nuzzle his face into the crook of Mickey’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” Ian mumbles against his skin, pulling back to look at Mickey. “I didn’t want to make a big deal about this. Could be nothing.”

Mickey sets a hand on the side of Ian’s neck. “S’okay, man.” 

It might not be okay at all, but Mickey needs to give him something. 

Ian takes a step back, nodding solemnly. “If I thought it was something, I would have told you.”

It’s not that Mickey doesn’t believe him. He does. But they still need to talk about this. They’ve already put it off long enough. Dealing with this has been a fucking roller-coaster, but since they’ve been a thing, neither of them have brought it up.

I mean, Jesus Christ. Fucking sue them for trying to enjoy each other without all of the background noise for a goddamn minute. 

“Look, maybe you’re right,” Mickey says, careful to not sound pushy. “But what if you’re wrong? What if it’s more than that? We gotta consider that, man. Can’t just go forward actin’ blind to all of this.”

Ian drops his gaze, shaking his head. “If I’m wrong, then I don’t know.”

Mickey notices Ian’s hand retreat into his pocket, watching as he pulls out the inhaler. He fiddles with it, looking at it with an absent stare. “If I’m wrong, then I guess that’s it, right?”

Mickey feels his stomach drop into his ass, because Ian sounds so fucking defeated, like he’s been denying this all over again until this very moment. And Mickey knows, more than anything, he fucking knows. It’s like fight or fucking flight, except there’s no way to flee from it. And there’s no way to fight it, either.

“Doctors come tomorrow,” Mickey reminds him. “Gonna have to talk to them about it.”

Ian nods, moving to sit down on the edge of the bed. Mickey can take a hint, following to sit down beside him.

“It’s not bad. Just like, a little bit of tightness in the back of my throat. Or, I guess maybe in my chest. It’s sort of hard to describe,” Ian tries to explain. “But I think the inhaler helped.”

That’s a relief, at least. Ian lies back on the bed, sighing heavily as his back hits the mattress.

“Hope so,” Mickey says. He just wishes he could fucking do _something._

Except there’s absolutely nothing that can be done.

It feels like Mickey is at a standstill, wracking his brain to come up with a solution that doesn’t exist. And it’s not like Mickey is a fucking doctor or something. Maybe it really is just asthma, and maybe he is being way too fucking dramatic about the whole thing.

He lies back beside Ian, turning his head to look at him. Ian is staring up at the ceiling, an almost wistful expression on his face.

“I’m scared,” Ian says suddenly. “I don’t want to fucking die here, Mickey.”

The fear in Ian’s voice is heart-wrenching. Mickey doesn’t fucking want this for him. Not Ian. Literally anyone but Ian. Mickey is pretty fucking sure that if he could get rid of every single fucking human on the planet in exchange for keeping Ian safe, he’d fucking do it. He’d do it and he wouldn’t think twice about it. 

“Gonna try to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Mickey says. And it’s stupid, because Mickey can’t fucking do shit to stop this, if that’s what it is. He takes a breath, trying his fucking damnedest to keep a level head.

Ian turns towards him then, inching his way across the bed. He pulls Mickey into him, tangling their legs together. The position is awkward and clumsy, but Ian rests his head on Mickey’s chest, holding onto him. Mickey threads a hand into his hair, playing gently with the strands. 

“I love you,” Ian says, almost inaudibly. Mickey closes his eyes. The lump in his throat threatens the promise of tears, but Mickey fights to hold them back. 

“I love you, too.”

They stay like that for a while, and before Mickey knows it he’s waking up several hours later to Ian peppering soft kisses into his neck. He has no idea how long he slept for, but their positions have barely changed.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep,” Mickey says apologetically, chuckling when Ian mumbles something unintelligible against his skin. “Can’t understand you, man.”

Ian picks his head up, smiling softly. He kisses Mickey on the mouth, and Mickey feels him smiling against his lips.

“I said—” He pauses, kissing him again. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

Mickey smiles back. “Hey, yourself. How you feelin’?”

Another kiss. And another. Ian shuffles until he’s hovering over Mickey completely, opening his mouth against Mickey’s to deepen the kiss. Mickey humors him, kissing back a little harder. It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to, but. He needs to make sure that Ian is okay.

“Ian,” Mickey says after a few moments, coming up for a breath of air. Ian chases his mouth like it’s all he wants, but Mickey turns his head away. “Asked you a question.”

“Mhm,” Ian mumbles, lips moving back down along Mickey’s neck. “Heard you.”

 _“Ian,”_ Mickey tries again. He says it more sternly, not that Ian gives a single fuck. He starts sucking on Mickey’s skin, nipping above his clavicle.

 _“Mickey,”_ Ian mimics Mickey’s tone. His voice drops down an octave, then. “You really wanna know how I feel?”

Well, _yeah_. Of course he fucking does. But Mickey can tell by Ian’s shift in tone that they are definitely not talking about the same thing. Mickey’s body is reacting, and he’s suddenly a very conflicted combination of irritated and fucking horny.

Ian lifts his head again, whispering into his ear, “Wanna know how I fucking feel, Mickey?”

Mickey shivers. Fucking _s_ _hivers,_ because Ian knows how to shut him the fuck up and he knows how to get what he wants. Mickey turns his head back without thinking and in an instant Ian is kissing him again, and Mickey knows Ian well enough by now to know exactly how this is going to end.

Ian seems okay. Jesus Christ, he seems real fucking okay. His hands move beneath Mickey’s shirt—Ian’s shirt, to be fair—pulling back from Mickey’s lips to slide it over his head. 

“Guess you’re not in the mood to chit-chat, hm?” Mickey teases. 

He’s trying to discreetly watch Ian for anything unusual. Like a cough or a wheeze, or shortness of breath. But Ian’s breathing is _fine,_ although that doesn’t stop Mickey from paying it extra attention. 

“Can’t chit-chat with your dick in my mouth,” Ian says, mouthing his way down Mickey’s body. 

Well. Ian certainly makes a very valid argument. 

The conversation is far from over, but Ian is nothing if not persistent. Mickey’s gonna have to pick this shit up later, when Ian’s mouth is far less occupied. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	10. Week 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things I'd like to mention. 
> 
> 1) This chapter is a turning point, and it is significantly heavier than previous chapters.  
> 2) I'm breaking 40k with this chapter, which is a personal milestone for me!  
> 3) In its entirety, I think there will end up being 15 chapters instead of 14 as I originally intended.  
>   
> Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading and supporting this fic. I promise to see it through in a way that I hope everyone will be very happy with, in the end. Having said that, there is still quite a bit of story left to tell on this journey, and these next few chapters will be somewhat of a roller coaster.

Week 9

Sunday morning comes rather uneventfully. For the most part, everything is as it should be when Mickey wakes up. Ian is snuggled up behind him, an arm draped over his waist, and he’s breathing little puffs of air against the back of Mickey’s neck. He seems okay, and Mickey tries to focus on that. Right now, he really needs to focus on that.

They didn’t talk much more last night. At least, they didn’t talk about anything regarding the developments of Ian’s health. The conversation had clearly overstayed its welcome in Ian’s mind, as he spent the remainder of the night keeping Mickey effectively distracted. It wasn’t a bad night by any means, but Mickey’s very preoccupied brain didn’t shut itself off nearly as much as Ian had intended it to.

It’s just a feeling. Just a fucking feeling that Mickey can’t shake. And he doesn’t know what it means, or if it means anything at all. This place has his mind warped, after nine weeks of solitude. He’s anxious and he’s tired. And his anxiety is doing nothing to calm his racing thoughts, but he can’t stop himself from thinking them, nonetheless. 

The doctors are coming later today, and maybe that has Mickey feeling more unsettled than he’d care to admit. Up until now, the visits have been uneventful. Their temperatures have been normal, their symptoms have been virtually nonexistent, and their blood tests have been unremarkable. They’ve been lucky, maybe, or maybe not. Maybe they’ve been prolonging an inevitable outcome. Maybe it would have been better if Mickey got sick during his second fucking week, before there were stakes that actually mattered. Before he fucking cared about living or dying. Before he fucking cared about Ian.

He recognizes when Ian wakes up, the way he squeezes his arm around Mickey’s waist a little tighter. He brushes his free hand through Mickey’s hair, and Mickey turns over, closing his eyes as Ian wraps both arms around him. He pulls him close, and Mickey’s heart feels like it’s constricting. He loves him. He loves him so much, and he’s so fucking worried.

Mickey reaches up to run his fingers through Ian’s hair after a moment, opening his eyes to see Ian smiling at him with his cute, sleepy grin. It’s so familiar now that Mickey has it memorized, etched deep into every corner of his brain. He sees it when he’s searching for a reason to smile, and when he’s drifting to sleep wrapped up in Ian’s arms.

“Should get up soon, y’know,” Mickey says tiredly. He doesn’t want to, but they don’t have much of a choice today. 

“Guess so,” Ian agrees. Mickey doesn’t miss the way his face drops, just slightly.

Mickey kisses Ian softly on his forehead, hand sliding gently down his cheek. Ian closes his eyes, and Mickey decides not to interrupt him as he slowly falls back asleep.

* * *

It’s around noon when the doctors finally come, a few hours later than their typical visits. Mickey is sitting on the couch, drumming his fingers nervously against the cushion. Ian is on the recliner. He looks exhausted, almost like he’s having trouble staying awake, despite falling back asleep earlier that morning.

The doctors examine Mickey first. No fever, lungs sound good, heartbeat is strong. He answers their questions seamlessly. No, he hasn’t developed a cough. No, his throat hasn’t been bothering him. No, he hasn’t had any breathing issues. No, he hasn’t felt fatigued. 

The only thing he’s currently developing is an extreme level of irritation. Because he’s fucking fine, and both doctors in the room are so fucking robotic. Their questions read off like a script, and they never say a fucking word about anything beyond Mickey’s responses. Is there any good news, or is the world still falling apart beneath their fucking feet? Has anyone beat this shit, yet? Have they found any treatments? 

No answers, though. None.

“Jesus Christ, don’t all jump at once with your riveting responses,” Mickey grumbles.

Yet again, no response. As per fucking usual.

Nothing but the most deafening silence that Mickey has ever experienced in his entire life. 

They move on to Ian next, and Mickey tries his hardest to stay quiet from his seat on the couch. He watches Ian like a fucking hawk as the doctors examine him, and Ian is very obviously making a point to not meet Mickey’s eyes.

“Mr. Gallagher, have you developed a cough?” The first doctor asks, once Ian's physical exam is complete. He seems to be primarily in charge of the interrogating. 

Ian hesitates. “Not a bad one,” he says after a moment.

“Not a bad one?” The doctor asks, pausing. He looks at the second doctor standing beside him, but Mickey can’t make out their faces from his place on the couch. 

They’re dressed in the same hazmat-style bodysuits as always, complete with an encapsulated hood and face shield. Mickey wonders how effective they really are, up against something like this.

The doctor is looking back at Ian now, looking for confirmation. “You have noticed a cough, then?”

"Little bit,” Ian says quietly. “Some shortness of breath, too.”

The shortness of breath obviously isn’t a surprise to Mickey, but he still winces at hearing Ian say it out loud. But, come to think of it, he doesn’t really remember hearing Ian coughing at all. He racks his brain trying to think back over the last twenty-four hours.

“And, Mr. Gallagher, when did you first notice these symptoms? How frequently are you experiencing them?” 

Ian fidgets, jiggling his knee nervously. 

“Mr. Gallagher,” the same doctor repeats. “Please, answer the questions.”

“Yesterday morning,” Ian says reluctantly. “I—I have an inhaler that I brought from home.” He glances at Mickey, swallowing hard before looking back at the doctors. “I’ve had to use it a few times to keep things under control.”

Wait, what? He’s had to use it more than once? Mickey absolutely does _not_ remember that. And Ian certainly failed to mention it.

“An inhaler?” The doctor repeats, flipping through the pages on his clipboard. “You have a prescribed inhaler, Mr. Gallagher? We don’t have a history of asthma listed in your medical record.”

Ian’s head drops, and he runs a hand back through his hair, avoiding the question. 

“It’s not—” Ian trails off. His eyes flicker over to Mickey again, and he looks uncharacteristically agitated, like he’s becoming more and more uncomfortable. 

Something about it makes Mickey feel incredibly uneasy. Something just isn’t right. It dawns on Mickey that Ian is acting kind of cagey, glancing fleetingly at Mickey like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. 

Mickey isn’t a fucking idiot. Ian is _keeping something from him._

“Mr. Milkovich, why don’t we take a step out of the room for a moment?” The second doctor suggests, sensing the developing hostility between them. He takes a step towards Mickey, and Mickey is not about to fucking deal with this. 

He jumps up off the couch quickly, walking backwards until he’s standing behind it. “Don’t fuckin’ touch me. You hear me?” He’s pointing a finger at the doctor, and he feels his blood starting to boil.

The doctor nods cautiously, choosing to not press the issue further. He turns back to look at Ian, and Mickey manages to meet Ian’s eyes from over their shoulders.

“Speak the fuck up, Ian,” Mickey says suddenly, his voice shaking beyond his control. Ian looks up, startled, and Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want you to hold anything back for my benefit. Right?”

The color drains from Ian’s face, and Mickey can’t fucking breathe. He wants Ian to reassure him. He wants Ian to tell the doctors they’re wasting their fucking time, because he’s _fine_ and everyone needs to stop being so fucking dramatic. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t. 

“You’re aware, Mr. Gallagher, that you have a low-grade fever?” The first doctor asks him sternly. “Your treatment will depend on your symptoms. It’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

Mickey feels like he’s going to collapse. He sees a tear fall from Ian’s eye as they stare at one another, until Ian breaks their gaze. Ian squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before turning back to both doctors. 

“The inhaler isn’t prescribed,” Ian admits, his voice barely a whisper. “My brother managed to get it to me when he first heard I was exposed.”

He’s fucking joking. He has to be fucking joking. All that bullshit about having asthma as a kid; about having occasional issues with it as an adult? Everything. Since the moment Ian started to feel sick yesterday morning, he's been fucking lying about all of it.

Both doctors nod as the second doctor begins removing blood testing supplies from his bag. 

“Anything else worth mentioning, Mr. Gallagher?” The first doctor asks.

Ian hesitates again, and it’s like pulling fucking teeth, but the doctors are unyielding as they wait for his answer. 

“Throat hurts,” he finally says, albeit reluctantly. His voice sounds far more defeated, like he knows he can’t turn back from this now. “And I'm exhausted. All I want to do is sleep. Doesn’t feel normal.”

More symptoms. More lies. More weight crushing down against Mickey’s chest.

Fuck this. Fuck all of this. Fuck Ian for fucking lying to him. 

Fuck Ian for for making Mickey think that he wasn’t hiding anything else.

“Is this why you wanted to fuck around so much yesterday?” Mickey snaps abruptly, absolutely careless as Ian and both doctors glance at him apprehensively.

He can’t fucking hold back anymore. He doesn’t give a fuck that the doctors are there, he doesn’t give a fuck about anything. Let them fucking listen, then. 

“You figured you’d keep me good and distracted, Ian? Tire me the fuck out so you could take fuckin’ hits off your inhaler every time I fell asleep? God forbid you just tell me the fuckin’ _truth,”_ Mickey raises his voice, holding up his hands, glancing briefly at the doctors again. “Oh, I’m so fuckin' _sorry._ Does this conversation make you uncomfortable?”

He wants Ian to fucking go. Just. Fucking. Go. Because he doesn’t want to be near him and it doesn’t fucking matter anymore. They’re going to take him away soon, anyway. 

It’s only a matter of fucking time.

He can’t help him. He can’t do anything for him. He can’t even fucking trust him.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says weakly. “Mickey, I’m sorry.”

Mickey doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so broken. He closes his eyes tightly, pressing his palms to his eyes in a feeble attempt to hold back tears. He feels fucking numb, like everything around him is slipping out of focus.

He opens his eyes just in time to see the doctors nodding simultaneously at one another, seemingly ignoring Mickey’s outburst, and Mickey has to walk away. He moves from the living room to the kitchen, pacing the length of the counter. He’s feels fucking shattered, and all he wants to do is get the fuck out. This is a fucking nightmare. This whole time, from start to finish. It’s been a sugar-coated fucking nightmare.

Mickey feels like he’s in a fog as the visit comes to an end. The doctors draw a blood sample from each of them, but Mickey can’t focus on anything after that. He sees them talking to Ian, but he doesn’t fucking listen. He grabs a six-pack from the fridge and shuts himself into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

Everything fucking hurts, like a shot to the fucking heart. He feels like a fucking fool. He regrets it. He regrets everything. He regrets letting himself feel fucking anything for Ian. He regrets trusting him. He regrets letting him in. He regrets ever being foolish enough to think that, somehow, maybe everything would end up okay. 

Most of all, Mickey regrets ever fucking falling in love with him.

* * *

Mickey gets drunk. At least, he tries to. He drains the six-pack quickly, but it’s not nearly enough. It barely takes the edge off, and Mickey is still so fucking livid he can’t think straight. He wants to forget about everything. He wants to forget about Ian. He wants to wake up and find that this was a dream; a ridiculous dream that they can laugh about together. Mickey would say _hey, dream-Ian is a fucking bag of dicks,_ and Ian would laugh his beautiful fucking laugh, and that would be the end of it.

And things would be okay.

He feels empty. His vision is a little screwed up and his head feels like it’s drowning, and yet he feels alarmingly sober. Everything feels heightened, like he’s hyperfocused on every single debilitating thought racing through his mind. He feels so incredibly nauseated that he half-wonders if he’s going to vomit, but he knows it’s not that kind of sick. 

It’s not really a surprise when Mickey hears the knocking at his door. He’s been alone for hours, but he has absolutely no intention of leaving the bedroom.

Mickey doesn’t say anything.

The knocking continues, and Mickey is tempted to throw an empty fucking beer can at it. 

Ian should know better. Mickey has _nothing_ to fucking say to him.

“Mickey,” Ian says a second later, tentatively.

Anger bubbles up within Mickey’s chest, and he feels like he’s silently daring Ian to say another fucking word.

“Mickey, please.”

Mickey sneers. No, Ian can’t see him, but he doesn’t fucking need to. Mickey is sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, and he is staring at the door so intently that he thinks he might be able to break it open with his eyes if he concentrates hard enough.

“ _Mickey,”_ Ian tries again. He sounds desperate and like he’s backing down all at the same time, and Mickey thinks that’s probably the smartest decision he could make right now.

He finally hears footsteps as Ian walks away, and Mickey shuts his eyes. He feels relieved, maybe. Not really, but in the sense that he absolutely doesn’t want to talk to him. He can’t have a conversation with him right now. Mickey is not just going to sit back and let Ian fucking humor him with excuses and half-assed apologies and whatever the fuck else Ian does to make himself irresistible to Mickey’s defenses. 

So, Mickey refuses. Because this shit isn’t his fucking problem. At least he’s not going to let it be his problem. Not anymore.

They weren’t friends at the beginning of this. They weren’t anything, and Mickey figures it can’t possibly be that difficult to go back to that. It’s only been a few months, for fuck’s sake. What the fuck does Mickey care if Ian is in or out of his life, now? He doesn’t. 

Mickey didn’t need Ian before, and Mickey doesn’t fucking need Ian now.

He climbs into bed with the hope of passing the fuck out for the rest of the day. Into the night, until tomorrow, he just doesn’t care. He needs to not think, and in order to not think, he needs to fall the fuck asleep.

The sudden knocking on his door interrupts him, and Mickey isn’t so fucking patient, this time.

“Take a fuckin’ hint, would you?” Mickey grumbles, grabbing the spare pillow to hold it over his head.

“Just let me in, please,” Ian’s voice comes pleadingly. Mickey wants to fucking hit him.

“Ian, I’m gonna be as clear as fuckin’ possible right now. I _need_ you to go the fuck away.”

No response comes. Only silence. Mickey thinks for a second that Ian may have listened.

“ _Please,”_ Ian says again. 

Mickey just wants him to stop fucking pushing.

Ian doesn’t say anything else, and it isn’t long before Mickey finally falls asleep.

* * *

If Mickey could hide out in his bedroom for the remainder of his life, he genuinely thinks that he would. But, because he’s human, he has to eat. And sometimes he has to take a fucking piss. He avoids Ian like the plague, which he has very successfully done before, and he finds that it’s really not that difficult. In fact, Mickey is a fucking pro. He can ninja his way around the apartment like no other, and after about a day of not seeing each other, it dawns on Mickey that Ian has most definitely resigned to hiding out in the other bedroom as much as possible.

Mickey is making a sandwich when he hears the lock of their apartment door clicking open, and he freezes, bewildered as one of the doctors from yesterday suddenly enters.

Up until now, doctor visits have solely taken place on Sundays. Once a week, and nothing more. Mickey doesn’t really know how to react, glaring at the doctor with an eyebrow raised.

“Can I help you?” Mickey asks, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Milkovich,” the doctor says. The formality makes Mickey roll his eyes.

“Good afternoon, Robodoc,” Mickey mimics his tone. He repeats the question. “Can I _help_ you?”

“How is Mr. Gallagher?” The doctor asks, once again side-stepping Mickey’s attitude. 

Mickey snorts. “How the fuck should I know? Ask him yourself.”

The doctor hesitates, glancing in the direction of the bedrooms. Mickey shoos him away in Ian’s direction, muttering an irritated, _“Not my fuckin’ business,”_ as he swings open the refrigerator to grab himself a beer. Being sober is sounding less and less appealing as the day goes on.

When the doctor returns from Ian’s bedroom, Mickey is sitting on top of the kitchen counter. He’s on his second beer, and he offers a subtle nod and raise of his eyebrows upon meeting the doctor’s eyes.

“You get whatever the fuck you needed, Doc?” Mickey asks, taking a swig of his beer. 

Doc. It’s not like any of the doctors have ever given Mickey a fucking name to go by, so he figures that’ll do.

Doc sighs then, looking at Mickey for a moment too long. Mickey can tell he wants to say something.

“Got somethin' to say, or?” Mickey urges, holding up his hands expectantly.

“Mr. Milkovich,” Doc begins. “Mickey, is it?” The formality is suddenly absent from his voice, and it’s a little bit startling. “I understand that you’re angry. But I would go easy on him, if you can find it in you.”

Mickey glares at him, a bit disoriented by the unexpected shift in their exchange. This entire time, for nine fucking weeks, they’ve been spoken to like professional test subjects, rather than actual human beings. 

“Why the fuck should I do that?” Mickey asks. “You have no fuckin’ idea, Doc. After being trapped here, after going through this fuckin’ hell together, do you know what the fuck it feels like to be lied to by him?”

“I can’t speak from experience,” he says. “But I believe Ian’s intentions were in the right place, even if his judgement was lacking.”

Mickey averts his eyes, focusing instead on his nearly empty can of beer. “Probably a lot easier to preach when you ain’t the one goin’ through it,” he says.

“I don’t doubt that. But to put it bluntly, Ian needs you. And I’m sorry to say that I expect he will decline rapidly.”

Mickey shifts uncomfortably. Fucking forgive him for trying to numb the pain. On top of being lied to, he still doesn’t know how to accept the idea of losing Ian. If he ignores it, if he pretends Ian doesn’t fucking exist, then maybe the pain won’t exist, either.

“I’m not a fuckin’ caretaker,” Mickey says. “And Ian doesn’t want me to be. Think he’s made that real fuckin’ clear.”

Doc sighs. “I don’t know the nature of your relationship, Mickey. But you’ve supported each other through all of this, and now isn’t the time to stop.”

Mickey doesn’t get what the fuck is happening here. Why, after nine weeks, is this doctor suddenly treating him with such a profound level of care? It’s off-putting, although not exactly unwelcome.

“Were you a fuckin’ therapist back before the world went to shit, or?”

Doc chuckles. “A psychiatrist, actually. I have multiple credentials.”

“Impressive,” Mickey muses. He cracks open a third can of beer. “I’d offer you a drink, but, you got that fuckin’ astronaut suit on.”

“You’re avoiding,” Doc says pointedly.

“Fuckin’ obviously.”

Doc smiles, but his expression is vaguely sad, and Mickey suddenly wonders about his life. He’s been trapped here, too. He’s probably missing someone back home, if he even has a home to go back to. It dawns on Mickey that if this doctor had a family, there’s a good chance that he has already lost them. These doctors are just people. Everyone, no matter who they are, has been affected by this.

“Ian’s blood work results were a very strong positive,” Doc says after silence falls between them. “His body is trying to compensate for the virus. His blood work had been rather consistent since his arrival here, but yesterday’s sample has confirmed that systemic changes have started occurring. The sudden symptoms are a result of the virus beginning to spread.”

“Interesting,” Mickey says quietly after a beat. He takes another sip of beer. “You treatin’ him with anything?”

Doc nods, shrugging slightly at the same time. “We can treat the symptoms, to an extent.”

“No cure, though,” Mickey confirms. It’s not really a question, because he already knows.

“Correct.”

It occurs to Mickey, as his mind begins to race, that Doc hasn’t said a word about Mickey’s own results. _No news is good news,_ or at least that’s been the case since their arrival, but it’s strange. Something about it is ironically, awfully, and unreasonably strange.

So, Mickey asks. Because he can’t not ask.

“Why the fuck am I not sick?”

Because honestly, he doesn’t want this. He’s hurt, and he’s angry, but he’d still trade places with Ian in a fucking heartbeat.

And that’s the fucking bitch of it all, isn’t it? 

He loves him. No matter what, he loves him.

“To be completely forthcoming,” Doc says. “I don’t have a good answer for you. But the virus hasn’t been detected in your blood, based on your recent sample.”

Mickey shakes his head. “Fuckin’ figured. But why the fuck _not?_ We were all exposed. And even if by some mad fuckin’ luck I didn’t catch it from whoever the fuck first got sick here, I’ve been livin’ with Ian this entire time. I’ve been—” 

He’s about to say _I’ve been fucking him. Kissing him. Everything with him._ He refrains, though, biting his tongue. He thinks Doc gets it, anyway.

“Mickey, I need you to understand something,” Doc says, his voice suddenly quiet as if he’s about to drop a secret. “The twelve-week quarantine was a generous guideline at best. More realistically, it was anticipated that the virus would likely reach everyone by week ten at the very latest.”

“Got it,” Mickey says. He drains his third beer, tipping his head back to look absently at the ceiling. He looks back at Doc after a few seconds. “So, by next fuckin’ week, right? I’ll be sick by next week.”

Doc looks at Mickey carefully, like he’s thinking, like he’s trying to figure him out. There’s something in his expression that Mickey truly can’t place.

“I shouldn’t be telling you any of this,” Doc admits. 

Mickey isn’t an idiot. That much is fucking obvious.

“No shit?” Mickey quips.

“You’re the only person remaining in the building that hasn’t developed any symptoms,” Doc whispers. He sounds a bit mystified. “And you’re the only person that remains without traces of the virus in their blood.”

Oh. Well, that’s jarring. Very, very incredibly fucking jarring. And Mickey stares at him blankly, because he doesn’t know what to make of that. And he doesn’t know how to respond.

Doc glances at the door suddenly, almost like he’s suddenly afraid of getting caught, and he nods courteously at Mickey before taking a step back. 

“Take care of Mr. Gallagher,” Doc says suddenly. His formal tone is back, and Mickey narrows his eyebrows at the abrupt shift in his demeanor. “Patients undergo treatment in their designated apartments until their needs become too extreme. So, when you feel that Mr. Gallagher needs further assistance, call the building’s helpline.”

Doc hands Mickey a laminated sheet, a list of emergency contacts listed in descending bullet points. The helpline is bolded at the top of the list, and Mickey eyes it. His stomach feels a little sour, like everything is starting to feel too real again.

“Ask for Dr. Seaver,” he says. “Otherwise, Mr. Milkovich, I’ll be back next Sunday for our weekly check-in.”

Mickey nods, but he doesn’t say anything. He watches as Doc, _Dr. Seaver,_ exits the apartment without another word. The lock clicks, and Mickey finds himself staring at the door for a long while after.

He needs to fucking man up, and he knows it. Because this is bigger than him. It’s bigger than both of them. He can’t make this about his battered feelings, or his resentment from being lied to. It’s all trivial shit, at the end of the day.

Mickey is a stubborn motherfucker, to be sure. Sometimes, he just needs to let himself be fucking mad. But honestly? Honestly, Mickey thinks he maybe would have done the same thing. He wouldn’t have wanted Ian worrying about him, either.

He doesn’t hate Ian. He can’t hate Ian. 

It was stupid to lie, and it was useless to lie. But Mickey doesn’t hate Ian.

And maybe, just maybe, Mickey owes him an apology. Because when he thinks about it, he’s not about to let everything end like this. He’d never fucking forgive himself.

He thinks that maybe this is what it actually _means_ to love someone. Really, truly, unconditionally love someone. And he knows. His love for Ian isn’t conditional. It was never _going_ to be conditional. 

Because Mickey loves Ian, in this lifetime and the next, and he’s not about to let Ian go without making damn sure that he knows. 

He's not about to let Ian go, period.

* * *

Mickey is hovering outside of Ian’s bedroom door awkwardly, trying to figure out how to make himself known. _Their_ bedroom door, actually, if you don’t count the last twenty-four hours. Mickey would rather they didn't.

He feels embarrassed and he feels guilty, because a whole day has gone by since they've spoken, and it’s anxiety-inducing in a way that Mickey never really considered until now. Because Ian is probably worse off than he was yesterday, worse off than he was two days ago, and it’s a lot to fucking think about.

He knows that Ian is struggling. He knows that Ian feels like shit, both physically and emotionally, and honestly, the last thing he needs is Mickey making him feel worse. He gave Mickey his space, and that’s something. 

Mickey bites the bullet and knocks on the bedroom door, just three little taps of his knuckle against the wood. No response comes at first, but then the door opens slowly, and Ian is cautiously peering back at him from the other side.

Ian’s eyes widen slightly, like maybe he was expecting another visit from Dr. Seaver. From his expression, it’s clear that Mickey is the absolute last person he expected to see. Mickey feels a sharp pang in his chest at the realization that Ian must have genuinely believed that Mickey would never speak to him again. 

They look at each other without saying a word, and Mickey takes in Ian’s unkempt appearance. His skin looks paler than normal, if that’s even possible, and his eyes look drained and a little bit puffy. Whether it’s from exhaustion or from crying, Mickey can’t be sure. But it hurts. It hurts his heart to see, and he needs to take a breath before swallowing down the lump forming in the back of his throat. 

It’s clear that Ian’s breathing is more shallow, too, and Mickey can’t believe how quickly all of this is happening. Like, no matter how many times he’s been told, it’s still shocking for him to actually see it developing before his eyes. He looks a bit sweaty too, like his fever is maybe breaking, and Mickey isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad thing.

“Hi,” Mickey says awkwardly, rubbing a nervous hand over the back of his neck.

“Hi,” Ian repeats. He takes a deep breath, and Mickey isn’t sure if it’s an anxious breath or an attempt to suck in more air.

It’s awkward, and Mickey doesn’t want it to be. His mind is blank, like he just can’t come up with a single fucking thing to say, and it’s stupid. It’s so stupid, because conversations have always come so fucking easily between them. Things are different now, so horribly fucking different, but _they_ don’t have to be. They’re still Ian and Mickey.

And Mickey surrenders in another instant, stumbling forward to throw his arms around Ian. He pulls him close, a hand on his cheek as he buries his face against Ian’s shoulder, his other arm wrapping desperately around his back. He nudges his nose against Ian’s neck, breathing him in, surrenders to the overwhelming feeling of being near him again. He feels Ian nuzzle into his neck, too, feels the hot tears fall from his eyes as they drip onto Mickey’s skin. 

“ _I_ _’m sorry,”_ Ian says with a shaky breath, wet against Mickey’s neck. “ _Mickey,_ I’m so fucking sorry.”

Mickey presses his lips to Ian’s cheek, running a hand up through Ian’s hair. He squeezes his eyes shut, because he doesn’t want to cry. He wants to be strong for him, but it’s hard, it’s so fucking hard. 

“I love you,” Mickey says, reassuring and soft. “I love you so much. So fuckin’ much. M’sorry, too.” 

Ian pulls back just slightly, enough for them to look into each other’s eyes. Ian looks so fucking teary and helpless and it breaks Mickey’s heart. Because he just wants to fix this. He wants to fix all of it, but what fucking use is Mickey, up against something so far beyond their control?

“I don’t want you to hate me,” Ian says. He sounds like he’s begging, and fuck, Mickey needs him to know that he absolutely never could.

He grabs onto Ian’s hands, squeezing them, and Ian squeezes back harder. Like he’s afraid that if he lets go, Mickey might disappear.

“I don’t hate you. I was mad, but I—” Mickey trails off, shaking his head. “I could never hate you, Ian. I fuckin’ promise you, okay?”

Ian nods. It’s a little bit frantic, like he’s having a difficult time digesting everything. Mickey notices that he’s a little bit shaky, so he pulls him towards the bed until he follows Mickey’s lead to sit down on the edge.

“Can I make you some dinner?” Mickey asks, standing in front of the bed. He brushes his hand back through Ian’s hair gently, and Ian shuts his eyes slowly.

“I’d like that,” Ian says. “Grilled cheese, maybe?”

Mickey chuckles, hand sliding back down to Ian’s cheek. He pats at his cheek gently before nodding.

“Yeah, man. I’ll make you a fuckin’ grilled cheese.” 

Ian smiles brightly, and Mickey’s heart races. He fucking loves that smile. He would make Ian a hundred fucking grilled cheese sandwiches if it kept that smile on his face forever.

* * *

It’s a rough week, to put it lightly. Mickey didn’t know exactly what to expect, although he knew it wouldn’t be easy, but it’s fucking hard. Like, somehow it’s so much fucking harder than he thought it would be, and it’s taking an incredibly demanding toll on both of them. Ian struggles a little bit more every day, and Mickey feels like he’s teetering on the edge of a breakdown. But he keeps forcing himself to settle down; keeps fighting so insistently for Ian because Ian fucking needs him and Mickey can’t be weak right now. 

But Mickey _feels_ weak. 

Because it hurts. Like a gunshot, like a stab wound, like a third degree burn; it fucking hurts.

He cooks Ian three meals a day, makes sure he stays hydrated on water and juice. He reminds Ian to take his medicine, and watches him closely as he falls asleep beside him at night. 

Ian’s sore throat worsens over the next few days, like it’s all he can do to swallow solid food. He still tries, but Mickey doesn’t hesitate to offer him ice cream and hot tea and anything else he can possibly think of, just to take the edge off. 

His cough is worse, too. It sounds like it’s tight; deep in his chest, followed by an uncomfortable wheeze that he can’t quite get rid of anymore. His new inhaler is a bit stronger, a mix of several drugs that Mickey can’t pronounce, and Ian uses it often. But it doesn’t do much. It doesn’t do nearly enough. 

The fever is gone, for the most part, but it’s controlled only by Ian’s cocktail of medications. It comes back quickly as soon as Ian misses a dose, and it comes back with a fucking vengeance until he’s sweating and shaking beneath their blankets. Mickey is even more attentive after that; refusing to let another dose be forgotten.

They’re lying in bed together, late into Friday night. Ian has been drifting in and out of sleep for most of the day, waking up again at nearly eleven and snuggling closer into Mickey’s body. Mickey kisses his forehead, and they remain silent for quite some time. Mickey tries desperately to ignore the wheeze in Ian’s chest, but it sounds so conspicuously loud in the quiet of their bedroom. 

“Mickey,” Ian whispers quietly, finding his hand to slot their fingers together.

“Hm?” Mickey mumbles, because he’s tired, but he’s here. And he needs Ian to know that he’s here.

“What was your first impression of me?” Ian asks, and it’s not at all what Mickey expects. Mickey looks at Ian curiously, eyes roaming over the freckles covering his beautiful face, and his heart clenches when he sees Ian’s soft smile.

“Uh,” Mickey considers his answer. He was irrefutably fucking _annoyed_ by Ian, if he remembers correctly. 

Ian, strong-willed and stubborn and infuriating. Ian, with his pushy confidence and his smirky grin. Ian, the first man to ever challenge Mickey and really get inside his head. The first man to ever truly make Mickey fucking _feel_ something.

“Thought you were an annoying motherfucker,” Mickey says, a smile still spread wide across his face.

Ian leans forward, kissing Mickey’s lips tenderly. “Thought the same about you, asshole.”

He’s smiling into the kiss, and fuck, Mickey just loves him so much. He feels so much for him. Love, desire, longing. Hope, pain, fear. It’s the most overwhelming mixture of emotions, and he feels it all so fucking viscerally. He wants to just enjoy this moment. He wants to stay like this, frozen in time with Ian by his side. He wants it forever. He’s fucking terrified, and then he finally feels himself breaking, because being strong is so fucking exhausting and he doesn’t think he can do it anymore.

How can he just keep forcing himself to pretend things are okay? Ian is growing weaker, and it’s getting worse, and he keeps thinking about the fucking helpline number like a dark, menacing cloud looming over his head. Mickey is going to fucking lose him, but he’s here right now and he’s holding him so close and he just never wants to let go.

A tear falls from Mickey’s eyes, down his face and along his check, and he feels Ian’s lips tremble against his. And when he starts crying, Ian does too, and it’s the fucking worst pain Mickey has ever felt. 

Mickey has so much to fucking say, but he doesn’t want to say anything. He’s still fighting this so hard, still refusing to accept it, still hoping that if they don’t say it out loud, that it won’t be real.

 _You don’t deserve this,_ Mickey wants to say.

 _I’m going to fucking miss you,_ Mickey wants to say.

 _I don’t know how to live without you,_ Mickey wants to say.

“I love you,” Mickey says instead. Because he does, and he can’t say it enough. 

Mickey will never, ever be able to say it enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	11. Week 10 (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The notes on this chapter are gonna be a little bit different.
> 
> I struggled with finishing and posting this chapter because there are incredibly important movements going on in our world right now that don’t pertain to fictional characters in the slightest. Honestly, I originally intended on having two more chapters completed in the time that it took me to finish just this one. But the world is a chaotic place, and there are other things rightfully utilizing my energy and attention.
> 
> However, I also know that some of you are genuinely invested in this story and I don’t want to put it off indefinitely for that reason. I love and appreciate every single person that has followed this journey so far, whether you’re a new reader or have been reading every week since the beginning. Even though the universe that I’ve created is an emotional one, I do hope it can offer you a bit of an escape even for a short period of your day.

Week 10 (Part 1)

Mickey has never really been afraid of death. Not inherently, anyway. At least, not that he can remember. Or maybe it’s just that he never really thought about it all that much, without having a concrete reason to. 

Growing up, he often wondered if he’d make it to twenty-five. Growing up, he’s not sure that he ever really cared. After all, what was he _really_ giving up if he died young? What exactly was the risk, when he never quite got around to making anything of himself?

Fear held him back from living so much of his life. Fear of his father, fear of the world around him, fear of acceptance. 

Fear of being who he really is. 

It’s a joke now, kind of, when he thinks about it. 

And truly, Mickey never gave a single shit about actually being accepted by his dad. He just didn’t want to get killed by Terry’s hands, if it ever came down to him discovering Mickey’s secret.

That meant, of course, that _nobody_ could discover Mickey’s secret. 

That meant that Mickey had to hide. And he had to hide everything.

Obviously, though, Mickey’s secret _did_ get found out, and Terry _did_ try to kill Mickey. At least, Mickey is sure that he would have, if Terry had been just a little bit stronger. Just a little bit quicker, and Mickey knows that he wouldn’t have won that fight. 

Life is unpredictable, that much is clear. Mickey could have gotten hit by a car, or a bus, dying instantly on the spot. Mickey could have gotten beaten to death in prison, by a disgruntled, unpredictable inmate. 

Mickey could have died ten-thousand different ways, and maybe it wouldn’t have mattered at all. 

But Mickey vowed that Terry would _never_ be the one to take his life away from him.

Mickey refused—absolutely fucking refused—to ever give Terry that satisfaction.

And in the end, Terry _deserved_ to die a miserable fucking death.

Mickey hopes it was fucking excruciating.

He hopes it was fucking agonizing. 

He’d love it though, if he could tell Terry everything about the life that he’s been living lately. 

The life that he’s created here, unexpectedly, in this sealed off apartment. With the boy that found him through ill-fated circumstances. With the boy that gave Mickey a desire to live.

Maybe, somewhere within the cracks of the last three months of his life, Mickey started to like himself. Maybe, somewhere within the last three months, Mickey finally learned to accept himself for who he really is.

Because in learning to love Ian, Mickey sort of learned to love himself, too.

So maybe Mickey still isn’t afraid of dying, but he’s absolutely _terrified of death._

And that’s what he thinks about as he looks at Ian, shivering and wheezing beside him in bed. That’s what he thinks about as he tucks Ian beneath two blankets, including his favorite blue one, as Mickey struggles between wondering if it’s too soon to call the helpline, and wondering if he should have already called.

Mickey isn’t just afraid of death. He’s fucking _angry over_ it.

Because this isn’t just about dying. This isn’t just about death. This is about Ian. This is about _Mickey’s_ Ian, and the fact that through him, Mickey thinks that he may have started to see the meaning of life. In their sealed off apartment, with the boy who found him through ill-fated circumstances, Mickey started to see the meaning of his life.

And fuck, just like that, Ian gave Mickey a reason to live.

So, what happens now, when Ian has very little life left? What happens, as the grains of sand slipping through their hourglass continue to fall?

Mickey thinks. He thinks, while Ian sleeps restlessly beside him, and then he thinks some more. 

He wonders if he’s being selfish, because Ian is barely conscious and Mickey is just fucking staring at him, _knowing_ that he isn’t doing well. He _knows_ that Ian needs help. He watches him struggle, he watches him decline. But he doesn’t want to call. Because as soon as he calls, that’s fucking it. 

And that’s what it’s been this entire time, right? Extraordinary levels of denial contrasted with unfounded glimmers of hope. A ticking time bomb, a trickling hourglass.

But through it all, through hell and back again, Mickey managed to fall in love.

God, how could he not love him? It happened so fast. It was nothing and then it was something. He thinks about it. He thinks about meeting Ian, arguing with Ian, laughing with Ian. He thinks about morning coffee and whiskey and scrambled eggs. He thinks about getting drunk with Ian, fighting with Ian, talking about his entire life with Ian. He thinks about pining for and resisting Ian. And then he thinks about falling. He thinks about giving in. He thinks about finally allowing himself to fall in love.

It’s Sunday morning, although time feels hazy at best. Ian is far worse than he was even just two nights prior, and Mickey knows. He’s restless, like he can’t really sleep soundly, but he’s too weak to stay conscious all at the same time. The wheezing is loud. It makes Mickey’s chest hurt, like he’s imagining what the increasing pressure on Ian’s lungs must feel like. It makes Mickey feel like he’s going to choke. 

It’s going to be today, Mickey thinks. He refuses to sit back and watch Ian die in this fucking bed, lying helplessly beside him, until his lungs give out. 

He needs a ventilator, and he needs a ventilator now.

But there’s no hope. There’s no maybe. There’s no silver fucking lining. Because they’re turning ventilators off before patients fall into comas, and Mickey thinks that Ian is already pretty fucking close to that. But he’s not a doctor, and he can’t make that decision, and he can’t fucking pretend that he knows fuck all about any of this. 

All he knows is that he doesn’t want to lose him. 

All he knows is that he’s _going to lose him._

He can’t imagine waking up without Ian’s arms wrapped around him. He can’t imagine waking up and making coffee for one, grabbing one mug out of the cupboard instead of two. He can’t imagine lying on the couch at night by himself, glancing back at the bathroom door for a brief second before remembering that Ian _isn’t there._

Every day for the rest of his life, however the fuck long that is, he’s going to think about him. 

Every day, for the rest of his life, he’s going to miss him.

Every single thing about him.

And he’s never going to fucking forget him.

Tears well up in Mickey’s eyes as he lies back down beside him, and he pulls him into his chest as he runs his fingers gently through his hair. And then he cries. He cries into Ian’s hair, and he wraps both arms around his body and he holds him. And Ian is shaking, but he’s not exactly awake, and Mickey feels like his own lungs are collapsing in on themselves. But then Ian is gasping as he wakes up suddenly, grabbing onto Mickey’s shirt as he tilts his head to look up into Mickey’s eyes.

“ _Mickey,”_ Ian whispers, although it’s barely even enough to be considered a whisper. He looks so fucking scared. “Can’t breathe.”

It’s scary. It’s absolutely terrifying. He’s fucking suffering. And Mickey doesn’t say anything at first because he doesn’t know _what the fuck to say,_ and then Ian is reaching up to wipe a tear from Mickey’s cheek. It’s useless, it’s so fucking useless, because Mickey’s face is soaked with tears and the pillow is soaked with tears and it just makes him cry harder. 

“I have to call,” Mickey says, and his voice is broken but he needs Ian to know. 

“Don’t want to leave you,” Ian struggles to say. 

It’s killing him. It’s fucking killing him. He wants to say _I don’t want you to leave me, either._

He kisses Ian’s forehead. He kisses Ian’s lips. 

And then he sits up, reaches over to the bedside table, and picks up his phone.

* * *

Everything feels like a blur after that, while Mickey waits in bed with Ian until the doctors come.

It sort of feels like a dream, at that point. Or maybe more like a nightmare, but definitely not anything like real life. He wonders if this is what it’s like to have an out of body experience, almost like he’s watching all of this unfold before his eyes, as if he’s nothing more than a bystander. And then he feels _guilty,_ because he’s so fucking stuck on his own devastation that he’s nearly forgotten about how horrible this is for Ian. All of his hopes and dreams, all of his aspirations, all of his goals. It’s all being taken away, and it’s so goddamn fucking unfair.

_You knew this._

_You knew this was going to happen._

_You knew what this was._

Mickey’s mind won’t fucking stop. 

Yeah, they tried to fucking ignore it. Yeah, they tried to fucking run from it. But how can anyone live their life knowing that its expiration date is right around the corner? How can anyone live their life knowing that within twelve weeks, it will very likely be over? He doesn’t think they would have made it, if they _hadn’t_ ignored it to some extent.

And maybe it was wrong for him and Ian to run, when this was always going to catch up to them in the end. But when they ran, they ran together, and it was everything.

And Mickey doesn’t regret it.

He won’t ever regret it.

Because they turned this mess into a goddamn fairytale, a fucking upside down wonderland, until the disillusionment came crashing down on them like a fucking meteor.

And maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was naive. But it’s hard to regret, when Mickey thinks about what they created together.

He wonders what they could have created together in another world. In another lifetime, what would their lives together have looked like? He thinks about it, and it hurts. It hurts deep in his chest because all he wants is a life with Ian beyond this. Beyond these sealed off apartment walls, with the boy who found him through ill-fated circumstances, Mickey wonders what they could have had together.

Mickey never really imagined this, when he thought about the possibility of getting sick. He kind of thought that he and Ian would start coughing one day, maybe develop a fever. He thought the doctors would come for a check-in one Sunday morning and it would be as simple as that.

He thought that if and when they got sick, they would have gotten sick together.

And now, at the beginning of their tenth week, Mickey still feels healthy as fucking ever.

He’s stuck in his own head, stroking his fingers through Ian’s hair and holding him close, and when the doctors walk through their bedroom door, Mickey feels numb.

His insides turn cold, as he presses the heels of his palms up to his eyes, as if he could possibly hide the fact that he’s been crying. As if he could possibly hide the pain shooting through his body and numbing him all at once.

There are three doctors this time, donned from head to toe in their familiar protective suits, and Dr. Seaver is among them. He meets Mickey’s eyes, while the other two doctors remain stoic, and he gives Mickey a small nod. And maybe it’s nothing, but to Mickey it feels like affirmation. Like he’s doing the right thing. Like Dr. Seaver knows how hard this is, but he’s telling Mickey that it’s okay.

It’s not really okay, though. And it won’t ever be okay. Mickey vaguely remembers that he’s due for his own check-up today, but he doesn’t give a fuck. He doesn’t give a single, minuscule, useless fuck. Because it just doesn’t matter anymore. 

Again, Mickey feels like a bystander. Like he’s watching all of this happen but he’s not really _there_ to experience it. He’s stuck somewhere between being overwhelmed by pain and shutting down entirely.

They move Ian carefully, because he’s too fucking weak to stand, and they set him in a wheelchair. It’s fucking nauseating. Because everything about Ian, everything that made Ian who he was, flashes through Mickey’s brain like his memories are set to hyperspeed. 

Ian is awake enough to look at Mickey, and when their eyes meet, Mickey’s heart constricts. He doesn’t say anything, and Ian doesn’t say anything, but the sadness in Ian’s eyes is fucking unbearable. 

Mickey watches Ian close his eyes, watches as tears stream down his face, and Mickey suddenly feels like he’s frozen in time.

His vision goes blurry with his own tears as they wheel Ian through their bedroom door. 

“I’ll be back shortly for your weekly check-up,” Dr. Seaver says quietly.

Mickey stares at him, and he says nothing, because he can’t even fathom how much it doesn’t fucking matter. 

And when they’re outside of the bedroom, when they’re making their way towards the apartment door, Mickey snaps. 

Because he can’t fucking think. He can’t fucking see straight. He can’t fucking breathe. And he runs. He runs until he catches them, although they haven’t gone far, and he ignores the bewildered expressions on the doctors’ faces as he leans down to pull Ian close. And he squeezes him. And he cries with him. And he’s shaking because he can’t bear to fucking let him go. 

“I love you,” Mickey gasps out. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And Ian reaches out to touch Mickey’s face, almost like he’s memorizing him. His hand is cold, but all Mickey feels is warmth. He closes his eyes, because he wants to remember Ian’s touch, too. For the rest of his life, _however the fuck long that is,_ he wants to remember Ian’s touch.

“Mickey,” Ian says, his voice quiet. It’s hard for him to talk, but he tries. “Love you, too. _Always.”_

It’s so much. Mickey feels so fucking much. His heart is full but it’s twisting and it’s breaking and he doesn’t think there could ever be another pain quite as agonizing as this. He looks at Ian, looks at the freckles on his face, looks at the green of his eyes. 

“Can I go with him?” Mickey asks suddenly, speaking to the doctors now, although he’s still looking into Ian’s eyes. 

He already knows the answer.

“ _Please,”_ Ian says. And he’s begging, because he’s so fucking scared. He doesn’t want to do this alone, and Mickey doesn’t want him to have to. “Please— _please_ let him stay with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Seaver says. It’s not his decision, and Mickey knows that, but it still gets him so fucking heated. He wants to scream, because he can’t think of a single fucking reason good enough to make Ian go through this alone.

Ian resigns, then, nodding almost imperceptibly. Like suddenly, and maybe a little bit unexpectedly, he’s accepting this. He manages to lean forward, pressing his lips to Mickey’s softly. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” Ian whispers against his lips. And Mickey swallows around the lump in his throat, because he thinks that Ian is right. He’s _terrified_ that Ian is right, because he doesn’t want to be okay. He doesn’t care enough to want to be okay. 

But then Ian says, “Mickey, you can get through this.” 

And Ian doesn’t mean _this._ Ian doesn’t just mean this, right now. Ian means life. Ian means that Mickey can survive. Ian means that Mickey deserves a life beyond the walls of this apartment. Ian means that one day, Mickey will have that for himself. 

But Mickey doesn’t want it.

He nods, though. Because he’s not about to make this harder. So he nods, and he kisses him once more, and he cries when he has no choice but to finally pull away.

That’s it, then. Mickey watches through teary eyes as they wheel Ian to the door. He watches as Dr. Seaver looks back at him, and he can’t quite place the expression on his face. 

He watches as Ian meets his gaze one final time.

And Mickey watches, empty and numb and with a chill spreading through his bones, as the door clicks shut behind them.

* * *

Several hours go by as Mickey waits for Dr. Seaver to return. He’s lying on the couch, a bottle of whiskey beside him, as he stares absently at the door.

Should he be drinking before a check-up? Fuck no. 

Should he be drinking before blood work? Fuck no, again.

But with all due respect, or _maybe_ no respect due at all, what the fuck difference does it make?

Absolutely fucking none, that’s what.

Because he doesn’t _care_ about his own health. He doesn’t _care_ about his blood work results, or the inevitable likelihood that he still hasn’t contracted the virus. 

He doesn’t even care if he _has._

It. Does. Not. Fucking. Matter.

No, it’s not his own health that he’s concerned about, as he waits for Dr. Seaver to come back through the apartment door. 

It’s Ian’s. Because Mickey has at least twenty fucking questions brewing around in his brain and every single one is about Ian. 

How is he doing?

Is he hooked up to a ventilator?

Did it help his breathing? Is he okay?

_Is he even still alive?_

Mickey downs the remaining whiskey from its bottle, ignoring the slight burn in the back of his throat. And then he closes his eyes, shutting out the world, as he falls into an agitated sleep.

His sleep is dreamless, and it’s not at all restful. When he finally opens his eyes, he doesn’t think he slept for more than thirty or forty minutes, at most.

But then he hears the familiar sound of the door’s lock turning, and he knocks over the empty bottle of whiskey beside the couch as he jumps off of the cushion. 

Mickey reaches the door right as Dr. Seaver opens it, and it’s more than evident from the look on his face that he isn’t expecting to see Mickey standing there. 

“Mr. Milkovich,” Dr. Seaver says, voice proper and formal as ever.

Mickey narrows his eyes.

“You can cut the shit, Doc. Ain’t nobody here but you and me.”

“Mickey,” Dr. Seaver corrects after a beat, closing the door behind him. 

“How is he?” Mickey asks, the words maybe slurring together in a rushed combination of anxiety and intoxication.

Dr. Seaver’s shoulders deflate slightly, and Mickey doesn’t know why the fuck he’s hanging on so desperately for an answer. As if he’s expecting by any slim fucking chance that maybe Ian is okay.

This isn’t like that. And Mickey needs to fucking accept it. 

_Ian is not okay. Ian is not coming back._

He doesn’t answer right away, instead making his way towards the living room to set his bag on the coffee table. Mickey follows him, folding his arms over his chest.

“You fuckin’ hear me, Doc?”

He looks up at Mickey finally, pulling out a stethoscope from the inside of his bag.

“Ian is alive. Barely stable, but alive, nonetheless.”

Mickey sniffs. Clicks his tongue. “How long’s he got?”

Dr. Seaver sighs, and Mickey _knows_ there’s no good answer. This illness is terminal. This illness is fatal. There’s no slowing it down and there’s no reversing it. But he still asks, because he fucking has to.

“I don’t believe it will be more than a few days,” Dr. Seaver says. “And that may be a generous overstatement.”

A few days. A few fucking days.

Mickey thinks of Ian, lonely and terrified in a cold infirmary bed. Probably barely awake, unable to stand, unable to eat. He thinks about how all Ian wanted was for Mickey to come with him. He thinks about how Ian practically begged for it, because he didn’t want to spend his last moments alone. 

It makes Mickey feel the same icy cold spreading down to his core. Because he should be with him. He should fucking be with him.

What’s the fucking _point_ of this, anyway? Why make Ian suffer for days, prolonging something that they know is going to happen?

_Why fucking prolong the fact that he’s going to die?_

“Fuckin’ explain to me,” Mickey begins. “What’s the point of keepin’ him alive on a ventilator? If you’re just gonna fuckin’ turn it off when his coma hits.”

Dr. Seaver nods, like he recognizes Mickey’s confusion. He even pulls a face as if maybe he doesn’t quite get it, either.

“The original reasoning was to give everyone an opportunity to recover,” he explains. “But, it obviously became more complicated than that.”

“Right,” Mickey says, although he’s not completely satisfied. “So, paint me a picture. Before the mutations, before all that shit, people were fallin’ into comas. And they’d recover?”

Dr. Seaver shakes his head. “They weren’t actually recovering, though. Not really.”

“But they weren’t fuckin’ dyin’. Call it whatever the fuck you want, but they weren’t dyin’ at the end of the day.”

“Maybe not. But you don’t know what it was like,” Dr. Seaver says, shifting uncomfortably. “It was gruesome, really. Everyone was so _ecstatic_ when people initially began recovering. But we found that those recovering just weren’t right—they were barely human, Mickey.”

Mickey considers him, raising his eyebrows. “The fuck does that even mean, anyway? We been hearin’ that since the beginning. Sounds like some straight up Stephen King bullshit if you ask me.”

“How do you figure?” Dr. Seaver asks. He’s doing his best to humor Mickey, but Mickey’s mind is far from distracted. 

“I don’t know,” Mickey shrugs. “Like fuckin’ Pet Sematary. ‘ _Sometimes dead is better,’_ right?”

“I suppose. But this isn’t a novel or a movie, is it? This is real life.”

Real life. Mickey doesn’t think he knows what that means anymore. It’s not the life that he knows and remembers, that’s for fucking sure.

“Plus, these people weren’t actually coming back from the dead. That _would_ be _some straight up Stephen King bullshit.”_

Mickey chuckles, just a little. Because it’s kind of funny to hear him speak that way, whether he’s mimicking Mickey or not. 

“So, what? One sick guy dies and that’s the end of it, but another sick guy falls into a coma, instead of dyin’. Makes everyone think he’s still got a chance. Then, he wakes up, but his brain is fuckin’ fried?”

Dr. Seaver moves to sit down on the recliner suddenly, apparently making himself right the fuck at home, so Mickey opts to sit back down on the couch.

“Patients were initially waking up with no memory. It didn’t seem that unusual at first, after battling such an aggressive illness. It’s quite common, actually.”

“Memory loss ain’t the fuckin’ same as blood-thirsty,” Mickey says candidly.

Because really, he knows all of this already. He knows about the comas and the dementia. 

He wants to know about what happens _next._

“It was alarming,” Dr. Seaver says quietly. Mickey figures that’s putting it fairly lightly. “They were strong, suddenly. After being weak, stuck in a coma for days, weeks, or longer. There was no human attachment, anymore. No remorse. No way to get through to them. No way to help them. It was like they didn’t know better, in the same way that a scared dog attacks a human. It seemed like self defense, almost. But it was animalistic. And it couldn’t be stopped.”

That’s sort of what Mickey had pictured anyway, from the bits and pieces of information that came through the news. That’s what Mickey imagined when he found out about Terry’s death, too.

“And you’re tellin’ me that not one person made it through this shit?” Mickey asks, because it’s still so fucking inconceivable to accept that _nobody_ has survived this.

Especially when he, himself, seems to be doing just fucking fine.

Dr. Seaver shakes his head sadly. “None that were reported. So, none that we know about.”

It comes back then, the overwhelming churning of nausea in Mickey’s stomach. Because alcohol can only drown out the noise so much, and Dr. Seaver can only divert his attention so much. Everything comes flooding back to the forefront of his mind, and it makes him fucking sick. He thinks about Ian. He thinks about Ian dying.

He thinks about what would happen if he tried to keep Ian alive.

“It wouldn’t be successful,” Dr. Seaver says softly, like he’s reading Mickey’s mind. “It wouldn’t be Ian, even if he survived.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey bites out. And then he thinks for a moment, weighing his very nonexistent options. “We’re the last ones here, right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Seaver admits. “You and Ian. Plus myself, and the two other remaining doctors that I believe you’ve already met.”

Mickey scoffs. “I’d use the term _‘met’_ pretty fuckin’ loosely.”

Because really, he hasn’t fucking met anyone besides Ian and Dr. Seaver in this glorified hellhole. Nobody else has fucking spoken to him. They’ve barely looked at or acknowledged him. And they’re sure as hell not shooting the shit over drinks together at night. 

“Tell me why I can’t be with him,” Mickey asks abruptly, recognizing the urgency in his own voice as he says it. “Everyone else is fuckin’ gone, Doc. I’m either gettin’ sick or I’m not, so give me _one_ good fuckin’ reason why I can’t be with him now.”

“I don’t have a good reason,” Dr. Seaver says. “It’s been a rule this entire time, and it’s out of my control.”

“It’s fuckin’ _bullshit_ and you know it. I’ve already been as exposed as I fuckin’ could be.”

As far as Mickey is concerned, the name of the fucking game has changed drastically. Everyone else in the building is fucking gone. Three doctors, Ian, and Mickey remain. That’s fucking it. 

Mickey could beat the shit out of Dr. Seaver if he wanted to. They both know it. He could knock him the fuck out, take his keys and run. He fucking could.

If they fought, Mickey would win.

It’s just that Mickey doesn’t actually want to hurt him. It would be easier if he was a fucking asshole, but he’s truly not a bad guy. He’s nice to Mickey. He’s answering Mickey’s questions. And he doesn’t deserve to get the shit beaten out of him over this. But that doesn’t change the fact that he _should_ let Mickey fucking go. 

Dr. Seaver sighs, hesitant to offer up a response.

“Why don’t we get started with your exam, at least?” 

And that’s fine, really, because Mickey knows it’s just fucking routine and he’s not trying to get Dr. Seaver in trouble or fucking fired or any shit like that. He just wants to be with Ian. 

He just fucking _desperately_ wants to be with Ian.

Mickey plays along, though. He sits back as Dr. Seaver listens to his heart and lungs. He answers the physical exam questions as they’re always asked. 

No fucking symptoms.

None. No, no, and fuck no.

Not even a fucking fever.

And it’s typical, really, because Mickey didn’t expect anything else.

Dr. Seaver draws a blood sample next, and Mickey remains silent. He watches as Dr. Seaver does his thing, commenting minimally until he’s all packed up as if he’s ready to leave.

“You gonna say somethin’?” Mickey asks, watching as Dr. Seaver makes his way to the apartment door. “Gonna let me see him?”

Dr. Seaver pauses, like he’s genuinely contemplating Mickey’s question.

“I have to run your sample,” he says. “But I’ll contact you before next Sunday, within a few days at the most. We can discuss it further at that time. I said it before, Mickey—I just can’t make that call for you.”

For fuck’s sake, maybe he can’t make the call, but he can break a fucking rule, can’t he?

And if Mickey chose to push the issue, if Mickey chose to fight this, would the other two doctors _really_ band together in an attempt to stop Mickey? That seems highly fucking doubtful.

The building has turned into a fucking wasteland, afterall. 

There’s nobody left to enforce a single fucking thing. There’s nobody left to give a shit, period.

So, is Mickey supposed to sit back and follow some makeshift rules now, while he waits alone in his apartment losing his fucking mind? 

The world is literally a fucking _calamity,_ and he’s expected to sit the fuck back and take it? He can’t fucking do this. He can’t, because Ian doesn’t have much time left. And Mickey may not have _a few days_ left to wait.

“Doc,” Mickey stops him. “What if you got the fuck outta here? The three of you. What if you left this place, and let me stay with him? You got nobody left here to protect.”

And Dr. Seaver stares at him. A little bit uncertain, a little bit like he sympathizes with him. 

“Let me run your test. And I promise I’ll contact you by tomorrow,” he says after a lingering moment.

That’s at least better than a few days. Sort of.

But it’s still not good enough. Because what Mickey _really_ wants is to burn this place to the motherfucking ground. He wants to take Ian, run away, and watch from a distance as it goes up in flames. 

It’s just that there’s nowhere to go, and he can’t fucking take Ian _anywhere,_ because the world is crumbling beneath his feet while Ian is being kept alive by a fucking machine.

If the doctors left, if they really chose to leave Mickey behind, Mickey wonders what he would do. If left to his own devices, what would he do?

Would he pull the plug on the machine before it was too late?

Would he allow it to keep Ian alive?

_Would he let Ian wake up?_

He doesn’t know. He thinks about it, and he thinks about it again. 

And he really, genuinely does not fucking know.

* * *

Come Monday night, nearly thirty-six hours since their last encounter, Mickey is both surprised and incredibly fucking _pissed_ to find that he still hasn’t heard from Dr. Seaver. There was no way to misunderstand their last conversation. Dr. Seaver had _promised_ that he’d contact Mickey at some point today. Whether he had answers or not, whether he had updates or not, he was supposed to fucking contact him. 

But it’s nearly ten o’fucking clock on Monday night, and Mickey hasn’t heard shit from anyone. He’s been staring at the fucking door for most of the day, maybe falling asleep two or three times as the hours rolled on. 

And when the anxiety became too much, when Mickey’s brain began to cave the fuck in on itself, he tried to call the helpline. When his mind began swimming through every horrendous scenario, when his mind began imagining every potential reason that Dr. Seaver could have had for not contacting him, he tried to call the helpline.

Again and again, out of complete desperation, multiple fucking times, he tried to call the fucking helpline. There was no fucking answer, though. Not even once. 

Nothing but the ominous sound of an indefinite busy signal. 

Mickey stares at the door as the apartment falls into darkness. Ten o’clock becomes ten-thirty. Ten-thirty becomes eleven. It’s obvious that nobody is calling him. Nobody is coming to talk to him. And it’s so incredibly fucking unsettling, because Mickey really trusted him, and Mickey _really_ felt like he had somebody on his side. 

It makes Mickey want to scream. 

In fact, it makes Mickey want to break down the motherfucking door. 

Because it fucking _sucks_. Dr. Seaver never once gave Mickey a reason to doubt him, and that’s the most disconcerting part. It’s aggravating and it’s frustrating but it’s also fucking _unnerving,_ because realistically, there’s probably a very valid reason. And Mickey is terrified to find out what that reason might be.

He’s starting to fall asleep again, in the same place on the couch that he’s been all day, when he hears the distant sound of a phone buzzing. It’s so faint that he thinks he’s dreaming. 

But then he hears it again, and he’s a little bit disoriented as he sits up, finding his own phone nestled deep within the pockets of his sweatpants. He listens a bit more closely until he realizes that the sound is coming all the way from the bedroom—the one that he previously shared with Ian.

And then it dawns on him, in a moment of clarity, that it must be Ian’s phone.

Mickey follows the vibrating to the door, pausing as he reaches for the handle.

It’s only been a day, although it feels like so much longer, and Mickey hasn’t stepped back into the room since they wheeled Ian out yesterday morning. He feels like there’s a weight pushing against his chest, preventing him from going inside.

But for some fucking reason, he feels compelled to know who is calling Ian’s phone. And in the end, his curiosity outweighs any foreboding hesitation.

He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, walking over to Ian’s side of the bed. He sees the phone resting on Ian’s nightstand, plugged into the wall right where he left it. 

The name on the screen flashes _Lip,_ and Mickey recognizes the name instantly. 

It’s Ian’s older brother. 

Mickey probably shouldn’t answer. It’s really not his business to answer.

Fuck if that stops him from picking up the phone, anyway. He taps the green phone symbol to answer the call, holding it up against his ear. And then he freezes. Swallows hard. Says nothing.

“Hello?” Lip, presumably, calls out after a moment of silence. “Ian?” 

Mickey clears his throat, tries to find the right words to say. Literally, _any_ fucking words to say.

“Um, no. This is Mickey,” he says finally. “Was, uh, livin’ with Ian for a while.”

“Mickey,” Lip repeats, like he’s testing the name out on his tongue. “Right. The boyfriend?”

 _Boyfriend._ Oh, holy fuck. 

The word spreads through Mickey like a wildfire, and he’s not sure how the fuck to identify the feeling left in its wake.

“We—yeah. I guess, yeah.”

They never labeled it. At least, they never labeled it to each other. It didn’t seem like it mattered, somehow. But Ian was _talking_ to people about him. To the outside world, Ian was calling Mickey his boyfriend. It fills Mickey’s stomach with butterflies and nausea all at the same fucking time.

“So,” Lip pauses. “He doing okay? Or—?”

“I don’t know,” Mickey says, cutting Lip off mid-thought. “He got sick. End of last week. They had to take him. I—I don’t fuckin’ know anything.”

Silence from the other line. 

And Mickey feels horrible. He feels so fucking horrible. For himself, for Lip. For the rest of Ian’s family. He feels the familiar lump rising deep within his throat, the one that he’s become so damn well acquainted with over the last few days. He sits down on the edge of the bed, feels his hand trembling around the phone.

“It happened so fast,” Mickey adds quietly. 

“Nobody else in our family knew besides me,” Lip admits sadly. “They just thought he was quarantined for safety shit. Not that he was exposed.”

Mickey doesn’t know what to say. He wishes he had better news. He wishes he could give Lip a glimmer of hope. He wishes that there was a glimmer of hope to fucking give.

“Things were good for so long,” Mickey says. “I thought—I tried, man. I tried so fuckin’ hard.”

He feels so fucking overwhelmed, because this is Ian’s older brother and here’s Mickey breaking the news that there’s a very high probability that Ian is already fucking dead. This is, without a fucking doubt, the absolute worst conversation that either of them could ever be having. 

“If you’re blaming yourself, you shouldn’t,” Lip says after a heavy moment of silence falls between them. “The world is in shambles. And this isn’t your fault.”

A tear rolls down Mickey’s cheek, and he quickly wipes it away. 

He knows that this isn’t his fault. He knows, but it doesn’t fucking help. And it doesn’t fucking bring Ian back.

“We were so fuckin’ close to gettin’ through this.”

They really were. So. Fucking. Close.

“He was crazy about you, Mickey,” Lip says suddenly. “Texted me about you a lot.”

Fuck. The words wash over him, and he closes his eyes. Squeezes them shut.

_He was crazy about you, Mickey._

Mickey doesn’t say anything. 

_I was crazy about him, too. I fucking loved him. I fucking loved your brother._

_I don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to live without him._

Mickey breaks. For the millionth time, he fucking breaks. And it fucking hurts like hell. 

_Everything_ fucking hurts like hell, like he’s burning from the inside out. Like everything bad that he’s ever fucking felt in his twenty-five years of life has morphed together into the worst and most visceral torment that he’s ever experienced.

And as tears well up behind Mickey’s eyes, he drops the phone to the bed, burying his face in his hands. He reaches down to tap the speakerphone button, and he hears Lip’s shaky breathing on the other side of the line.

“Thanks, you know,” Lip adds, a delicate tone to his voice. “For being good to him, I mean. I’m really glad he found you.”

Mickey hopes, more than anything, that he was good to him. More than anything, he hopes that maybe he made a difference in Ian’s life.

He just wishes, so fucking badly, that he could have done more to help him.

If he had done more, he wonders if Ian would still be with him now.

“I loved him,” Mickey says suddenly. Quietly. Because for some reason, he thinks that Lip should know.

Silence, again. And then Mickey hears Lip sniffling. 

And he thinks that it’s probably time to end the call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PS. I’m not about to get political here, but wherever you are in the world, I hope you are staying safe and doing your part to make a difference. Remember that it’s okay to get mad and it’s okay to speak up for anything and EVERYTHING that you believe in. I love you guys. Take care of yourselves and each other!
> 
> \---
> 
> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	12. Week 10 (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to mention:
> 
> 1) This chapter took me longer than expected. Thank you so much for being patient!
> 
> 2) I'm behind on replying to comments, but I can't thank you enough if you've commented on any previous chapters. Your feedback and encouragement means more than I could ever properly put into words.
> 
> 3) Only three chapters left, after this one. The final chapter will be an epilogue. Hang on, friends!
> 
> 4) I went back through previous chapters to edit and make minor adjustments. They likely aren’t noticeable, but they’re just enough to make the story flow a bit more seamlessly if you’re reading all at once :)

Week 10 (Part 2)

It’s Wednesday, probably. Or maybe it’s Thursday. Mickey really can’t be sure. The days are bleeding together dismally, without anyone to share them with. There’s nothing to do. There’s nobody to talk to. 

And Mickey feels numb. 

From the tips of his fingers to his ends of his toes, from the surface of his skin to the blood pumping through his veins, he feels numb. He feels numb, and maybe a little bit invisible, because his phone never fucking rings and it’s been days since he’s seen another human, and Mickey is starting to feel like maybe he doesn’t even exist. 

He hasn’t heard a word from any of the doctors, even after Dr. Seaver promised that he’d get in touch with Mickey by Monday.

It’s fucking _Thursday,_ Mickey confirms with the calendar on his phone, and he’s heard a whole lot of absolutely fucking nothing from anyone. 

And Mickey really doesn’t know what that means. 

It’s been five days since Ian left their apartment. It’s been five days since Mickey last saw him, after living with him for sixty-four days. Sixty-four days, because Mickey went back and fucking counted.

And sixty-four days doesn’t seem like a long time. It doesn’t seem like a long time at all, but it was. Because they spent every goddamn second together. They ate their meals together. They watched tv shows and movies and documentaries together. They drank together. They laughed together. They cried together. They slept together. They kissed and they fucked and they made fucking love. Together. 

Mickey just wants him back. Mickey just fucking wants all of it back. 

Sixty-four days. How did all of this happen in just sixty-four days? How did Mickey meet, fall in love with, and _lose_ Ian all within sixty-four days?

Everything feels fucking warped. Time means nothing and he feels like he’s in an alternate reality. Like this isn’t his life. This isn’t his world. Maybe the whole thing has been a nightmare. Maybe he's been dreaming the entire fucking time.

For all he fucking knows, this is some nightmarish fever dream that he conjured up in the midst of his own coma. Maybe, this entire time, it hasn’t been real. Is Mickey even awake? 

Can Mickey even _feel?_ Does he _remember_ what it was like to feel?

But he does, and that’s the fucking thing. That’s the only thing keeping him grounded, reminding him that this is real fucking life. He feels pain, inside and out. He feels love. He feels grief. He feels anger. He feels so much of everything and so much of nothing all at the same damn time. 

And he’s going to fucking _lose his mind_ if he can’t make contact with someone soon.

But, if and when he does, he’s also _terrified_ of what he’s going to find.

He’s so fucking terrified of what lies beyond the walls of his apartment, after so many months of being trapped inside. When he thinks about the outside world, he’s not sure what he pictures anymore. He wonders if it’s flatlined into a desolate mess of death and chaos. He wonders if it’s like the movies; with abandoned buildings and cars and people hiding out in makeshift bunkers and boarded up houses. He knows for a fact that some people boarded up their homes months ago, as a safety precaution before things got really bad. He remembers Ian telling him about his family members, and he imagines that his cousin and sister did the same.

And, of course, he thinks about Ian. All day, every day, he fucking thinks about Ian.

He thinks about how, immediately through his apartment door, somewhere within the confines of the building, Ian is suffering and wasting away. Dying. Or maybe, and more likely, he’s already fucking dead. 

For all the fuck Mickey knows, _everyone_ is fucking dead. 

It’s devastating. It’s absolutely devastating and Mickey can’t handle it but he can’t stop fucking thinking about it. He thinks about the amount of people that have died in just his own building over the last few months. He thinks about the amount of people that have died _everywhere_ in the last few months. It’s scary. It’s so fucking scary, and it makes Mickey shaky when he thinks about it. Truthfully, Mickey has never felt more alone.

No matter what world he tries to imagine beyond the walls of his apartment, he doesn’t think there’s any coming back from this. How the fuck could there be? And he doesn’t want to live his life in a broken world, alone, struggling to survive. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his days wondering how or when he’s going to find his next meal. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life missing Ian. Even if he could get out, where the fuck would he go? It’s too much. It’s all too fucking much and he doesn’t want _any of it._

He feels healthy. I mean, as fucking healthy as he could be, considering. He’s not working out anymore. He hasn’t in a while. He’s not eating much. Maybe one meal a day. He’s drinking plenty _—_ booze more so than water _—_ but the alcohol supply is dwindling along with his food stock, and it seems that the luxury of ordering food and drinks has come to a very sudden and alarming stop. So, what’s next? What the fuck happens then, when he finally runs out of food?

Piece by piece, those last few shreds of normalcy are being stripped away. Mickey thinks that the world is at its final breaking point, and he’s pretty certain that he’s at his final breaking point, too.

Often, he thinks of Ian’s words. He thinks about Ian encouraging him to keep going. He thinks about Ian telling Mickey that _he’s going to be okay._

The lump rises in his throat, because he doesn’t fucking _want_ to be okay. But anything less feels like he’d be letting Ian down, and that hurts even worse. What the fuck is he supposed to do, if there isn’t any life beyond this? He needs to fucking die here, like he was _supposed_ to, because there was never going to be another option, and he has _nowhere to go._

Sandy isn’t answering her phone anymore. He tried. He fucking tried, and then he tried again. But there’s nothing. No response to texts or calls. No reply to his voicemails. He wonders if she’s still alive, if she’s still with Mandy. He hopes they’re safe, somehow, but his skin crawls whenever he thinks about it. He thinks that maybe he doesn’t want to know.

So, he tries not to think about it at all.

He hasn’t heard from Lip again since their phone call earlier in the week. He didn’t really expect to hear from him again, but at the same time he finds that he actually _wants_ to talk to him. For some fucking reason that he can’t figure out, he wants to reach out to him. But there’s no point, really. He doesn’t know Lip. Talking to Lip won’t fucking bring Ian back. He doesn’t know _any_ of Ian’s siblings, and even if they’re somehow making it through this, it’s not like Mickey is about to fucking impose on Ian’s family as if they fucking owe Mickey anything. They don’t.

But Mickey has nobody, and he has nothing. 

So, he drinks a lot. He sleeps a lot. 

He cries. A lot.

The loneliness is overpowering. The silence is absolutely fucking maddening.

Everything is just so fucking hopeless.

Endless. Pointless.

And by the time Friday comes, Mickey feels so fucking defeated and beaten down that he doesn’t get out of bed. Not for coffee, not for food, not even for alcohol. 

Because he’s numb.

He’s felt it a lot, going through the motions, skidding back and forth between feeling nothing and feeling too much. But today, he feels numb. And this time, it’s encompassing every part of him. Every thought, every feeling. He hopes that maybe he’s finally sick, and maybe this is some bizarre, atypical side effect that nobody told him about.

Who the fuck knows, right? There’s not a rule book for this shit. Fucking clearly.

And it’s not like he has anyone to ask, because Dr. Seaver still hasn’t contacted him and after everything, after all of this, the only thing that Mickey is certain of is that he has finally given up.

It makes him feel guilty, almost. At least it would, if he could fucking feel a damn thing. But he knows enough to know that he’s sorry. He’s so fucking sorry, because giving up means that he’s disappointing Ian, letting him the fuck down after everything, but he just _can’t._ He’s fucking sorry that he can’t keep going. He’s fucking sorry that he can’t fight this anymore, but there’s nothing left to fight. 

_I miss you. I’m so fucking sorry. I will never stop loving you._

The thoughts replay constantly, like he hopes that maybe, if he thinks them hard enough, Ian will know. He isn’t crying anymore, though. After days and days of relentless crying and unyielding pain, Mickey’s insensate body has absolutely nothing left to feel. 

Mickey has nothing left to give. 

* * *

Late on Friday night, after several missed calls and a handful of unread texts, Sandy finally calls Mickey back.

He’s still in bed. He’s been in bed all fucking day, sometimes sleeping, sometimes staring at the ceiling. And when his phone rings, when her name flashes across the screen, he finds himself almost too stunned to actually answer the call.

After six rings, Mickey swipes his thumb across the phone screen. He hits the speakerphone button, hesitating for a moment before saying anything. It’s been five days since he’s fucking spoken to another human, and somehow it already feels like it’s been a goddamn lifetime.

He’s annoyed, instantly, on principle. Because after fuck knows how many unanswered calls and texts, he has a fucking right to be.

“You finally remember how to use a fuckin’ phone, or what?” Mickey huffs out, his voice a bit raspy. His throat feels dry.

Not surprising, though. He hasn’t had so much as even a sip of water in at least two days.

And, yeah, his tone is rude as fuck and he knows it; recognizes it clearly as soon as the words leave his mouth. Quite honestly, he really doesn’t give a shit.

“Jesus, Mickey. What’s with the attitude?” Sandy bites back, defensive. “We haven’t spoken in _weeks."_

“No, we fuckin’ haven’t. Ain’t exactly like you’re callin’ to check in or anything,” Mickey retorts.

It’s stupid. It’s really fucking stupid, because Mickey doesn’t call Sandy either. Not ever. Since their phone call and FaceTime chat _eight weeks ago,_ which was communication that Sandy had very distinctly initiated, they haven’t spoken. But Mickey is so fucking angry. Like the instant he’s talking to another human, the instant he finds any tangible sense of reality, all of his emotions come racing back and they all blur together in an overwhelming fog until the only thing he feels is _fucking livid._

It’s not actually about Sandy at all. Mickey isn’t mad at Sandy. Sandy doesn’t even _know_ about Mickey’s circumstances, because he never bothered to tell her, so why would she ever think to check in on him? She fucking wouldn’t, and that’s on Mickey.

“I really don’t know what to say to that,” Sandy says shortly, like she’s very close to being done with this conversation. 

But Mickey needs to talk to her. He needs to talk to _someone,_ and he’s not about to let her hang up now that he’s finally got her on the phone.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, okay?” Mickey says abruptly. “Shit isn’t good. It’s really fuckin’ bad. Fuck. I just _—"_

Mickey trails off, because there aren’t really any fucking words to properly express what he’s feeling. He hears her sigh. He wonders what she’s thinking. 

He wonders if she’s okay.

“I got time,” she says. “Spill, now.”

And so, that’s exactly what he does. 

For the first time, maybe ever, Mickey opens up to her. And Mandy, too, as Sandy announces her presence before switching him to speakerphone. 

He can do this, because he _needs_ to do this.

Mickey swallows down his pride, shoves aside his deep-rooted reluctance to confess his feelings, and he tells them everything.

From start to finish, Mickey tells them everything.

* * *

When Mickey talks about his feelings, he’s not looking for sympathy or validation. He’s not looking for someone to fucking coddle him or sugarcoat the grim reality that he’s found himself in. No, that’s not what Mickey wants or needs.

When Mickey talks about his feelings, the only thing he really wants is to be heard. And, for some stupid reason, talking about Ian helps Mickey feel like maybe he’s a little bit closer to him, again.

He never expected that he’d want to discuss something like this. Talking to his family—even just to his sister and cousin—about the life that he began building with another man? Fuck, he almost doesn’t even believe it himself. 

It’s not like either of them ever gave Mickey shit for being gay, not ever. And on that same note, Mickey is also pretty damn certain that Sandy has dated girls before. 

At the same time, though, it’s just not something that ever came up between them. And Mickey never wanted it to.

Because when you’re not close with your jumbled family, your sexual and romantic preferences aren’t exactly coming up in your few and far between conversations. And even less, in Mickey’s case, when your father is a homophobic, homicidal douchebag excuse of a human. 

It’s never been a point of discussion, and Mickey never fucking _needed_ it to be. 

But he needs it to be, now.

Because Mickey fell in love. Mickey fell fast and hard in love, and he wants to keep that love alive, somehow. He wants other people to know. Ian gave Mickey a piece of life that he never knew he could have, and no matter what, he just wants everyone to fucking know.

Even after Mickey came out _officially,_ as Terry was dramatically hauled off to jail, it was still so fucking uncomfortable for him. He always felt judged. He always felt that people suddenly thought differently of him; like it changed their perspectives on who Mickey really was. 

And now, truthfully, Mickey realizes how much it never fucking mattered. It was never anyone else’s business. It was never something to be ashamed of. 

Mickey gets it, now. Because he fell in love. And when he fell in love, everything else just sort of made sense. Even in a broken fucking world, Mickey felt like everything finally made sense. 

Maybe, and most importantly, Ian helped to change Mickey’s perspective, too. Ian helped Mickey accept himself. He showed Mickey love, and he showed Mickey _how_ to love.

So, Mickey tells them everything. Because he wants to, and because he needs to.

And it feels so _good._ It feels so fucking good to say it all out loud.

Mickey’s sitting at the kitchen counter now, his phone propped up against the toaster. They’re FaceTiming, because it’s decidedly easier than talking on the phone, and it’s so fucking _refreshing_ to talk face to face with other people.

Even if the conversation is happening through a phone screen.

It feels so strangely _normal_ that it’s almost enough to make Mickey forget. Like if he tries _really_ hard to turn his brain off, it’s as if he’s having a normal, everyday conversation. Like he’s in a normal apartment, talking fondly about the man he loves. The man he loves, who surely will be walking through the door at any moment to kiss Mickey on the cheek and ask him about his day.

If he could have anything, it would be that. The normalcy of a mundane reality, just simply being _together_ with the man he loves.

He’s spaced out, snapping back to reality when he hears Sandy asking Mandy if she wants another drink. Mandy mumbles back, “Obviously, yeah.” 

Mandy looks back at Mickey, resting her head in her palm.

“I can’t believe you weren’t even fucking him yet before that FaceTime call,” Mandy says crassly.

It’s been a heavy conversation, as expected. In Mandy’s own way, Mickey knows that she’s just trying to lighten the mood. She’s never been the best at putting things delicately. 

But then again, Mickey never was, either.

“Would have that night, probably,” Mickey thinks out loud. He smiles faintly. “Wanted to.”

“It ended up working out for you,” Sandy adds, coming back into the frame. “Sounds like you really fell for him, Mickey.”

Talking about it helps. But it also hurts. It never _stopped_ hurting. 

And all at once, he feels sobered back to reality. That familiar constriction in his chest overtakes him and makes him feel like he’s suffocating.

_Again._

He struggles to swallow down the lump in his throat. He’s so fucking tired of crying. 

“Think I’m gonna go,” Mickey says abruptly, his voice cracking. “Thanks. Y’know, for listening. Never been much for talkin’ about shit like this.”

“Mickey _—_ ” Sandy pauses, like she’s trying to choose her words carefully. “Take care of yourself, okay? We, um. We’re locked down in quarantine housing, too. So. We get it, that’s all.”

Mickey feels fucking whiplashed, because she says it like an _oh by the way_ kind of statement, as if that’s a reasonable way to end a conversation.

Who the fuck drops a bomb like that as a fucking afterthought?

“You’re fuckin' _what?_ And you _—_ what? Somehow didn’t fuckin’ think to bring it up before now?”

She and Mandy share a guilt-ridden glance at one another, almost like they chose to not tell Mickey on purpose. And yeah, that makes him feel real fucking great.

“Don’t be like that,” Sandy says. “Getting pissy over this solves nothing, okay?”

Mandy pushes her way into the center of the frame, narrowing her eyes. “It’s not like _you_ told us about any of your shit until now, either.” 

Mickey sighs. Yeah, they’re fucking right. Both of them. Mickey had no intention of telling them, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he wanted to talk about Ian so fucking badly, he probably wouldn’t have at all. 

Plus, to be completely fair, it’s not like he gave them much of a chance to get a fucking word in. He’s been far too fucking busy yapping about his mushy ass feelings for _hours._

“I’m sorry,” Mickey says. “I get it. Just. Be careful, okay?”

And it’s stupid. Because it does nothing, and it helps nothing. But he means it.

“We’ll try,” Sandy says. “You, too.”

Mandy nods her head. “Don’t be a stranger, Mickey.”

That’s it, then. 

The call ends, filling the apartment with an immense _—_ although familiar _—_ silence. The room is dark once the phone screen turns black, and Mickey realizes that it’s very likely the last time he’ll ever talk to either of them.

He hopes they make it through this, somehow.

* * *

In the days following Ian’s absence, the nights are the hardest part. 

Wrapped snugly in Ian’s blue blanket, breathing in the faded scent of his cologne, Mickey finds comfort in the bed that they shared.

It took Mickey two fucking days before he was able to sleep in their bed again, after Ian was taken away.

Two fucking days.

It was so fucking _difficult_ ; so incredibly fucking painful and so incredibly fucking brutal to be back in that bedroom alone.

But he tries. He tries because that fucking blue blanket still smells like Ian and Mickey needs it. He needs it to sleep. He needs its comfort.

After _everything_ , he just fucking needs it. 

And for the last three nights, it’s been the only thing enough to offer Mickey any form of relief.

He revels in its scent. It’s covered in Ian’s cologne, but also something else. Something natural and so distinctly _Ian_ that it’s almost as if he’s right there beside him. 

Really, truly right there beside him. 

It’s vivid, suddenly _—_ Ian’s arms wrapped around him, holding him close. He feels love. He feels warmth. He feels everything, absolutely fucking everything that he’s been missing.

Mickey breathes in deeply, inhales the scent. It’s more intense now, with the sensation of strong arms wrapped around his torso. Ian is pressed against his back, aligned with every inch of Mickey’s body. 

It feels good. Safe. Familiar.

Mickey leans back into Ian’s embrace, like he has a million times before, letting Ian pull their bodies closer together. His knee slides between Mickey’s thighs, and Mickey feels the pounding of Ian’s heart against his back. 

It’s a dream, Mickey thinks. It has to be a dream.

But it feels good. It feels so fucking good. 

Good. Safe. Familiar.

And fuck, Mickey wants _so badly_ for it to be real. 

He knows it’s not real. It can’t be real. And he should wake up. He should wake himself up right fucking now, because it’s going to hurt so much more if he doesn’t. When he wakes up to an empty bed. When he wakes up to nobody beside him. When he wakes up, stripped of this faux sense of love and security, it’s going to fucking hurt _so much more_.

But he can’t wake up. 

He doesn’t _want_ to wake up.

He turns around in Ian’s arms, finding solace in Ian’s touch as he leans in to press their lips together. Mickey kisses back. Once, twice, three times. He kisses him hard. He parts his lips, loses himself in Ian’s taste. And Ian’s hands are in his hair, his breathy sounds seeping into every inch of Mickey’s brain, etching deep into his memories.

Ian’s scent, Ian’s hands, Ian’s lips, Ian’s body. 

Kissing. Touching. Feeling.

_Ian. Ian. Fucking Ian._

Ian’s fingers trail down the side of Mickey’s face, gently. Softly. Lovingly. Mickey’s eyes are closed, and he’s basking in the feeling. Basking in Ian’s touch. Basking in Ian’s warmth. 

It’s overwhelming, though. And there’s a distant knocking in the back of Mickey’s mind. A voice. 

Maybe a warning.

Because this isn’t real.

It feels so real, but it’s _not fucking real._

It’s not fucking real. 

The warmth starts to dissipate. 

It fades gradually, the way a hot shower turns cold. Hot, warm, less warm, cool, cold. 

Fucking cold. Fucking freezing. 

Freezing. Hollow. Dead.

Panic begins to rise rapidly in Mickey’s chest. 

He feels like he’s choking. 

He can’t breathe and he’s fucking choking.

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck._

Mickey pulls back from Ian frantically, sitting upright on the bed. Ian mimics his movements in a far more meticulous manner, staring back at him all the while. His gaze is blank, the green of his eyes replaced with darkness. Almost black. Empty. _Cold._

An icy chill trickles down Mickey’s spine, as Ian tilts his head slowly to the side.

“What’s wrong, Mickey?”

The voice is eerie. Taunting, almost. 

This isn’t real. This isn’t _Ian._

This isn’t fucking Ian and Mickey needs to _fucking wake up._

And then, without warning, this fucking _thing_ is grabbing Mickey by the neck, covering Mickey’s mouth with its hand to keep him from screaming. And it’s not Ian. It’s not Ian at all. Its hands are freezing and clammy, holding Mickey by the throat and squeezing.

It whispers into Mickey’s ear, “He’s gone, don’t you get it?”

Cold breath. Cold hands. _Fucking cold_.

Mickey wants to scream but he _can’t fucking scream._

And all at once, everything goes black.

* * *

Mickey is pretty fucking certain that he blacked out. There’s a very _high_ fucking likelihood that he actually passed the fuck out. And when he comes to, it takes a second for him to get his bearings. 

For a few sluggish moments, he hardly comprehends that he’s awake. He’s drenched in an uncomfortable sweat, gasping for air as he throws the covers off of his body and jumps out of bed.

_Fuck._

That wasn’t just a dream. That wasn’t even just a nightmare. That was a full-blown, vivid-as-fuck night terror. So horrifyingly evocative that Mickey can’t even bring himself to look back at the bed. 

He needs to get the fuck out of the bedroom.

He’s trembling, hands shaking as he grabs his phone from the side table. He runs out of the room as fast as his feet can manage, slamming the door shut behind him.

Fuck. What the fuck.

What the fuck _was that?_

Mickey doesn’t usually remember his nightmares. He often remembers the feeling _—_ the rapid beating of his heart paired with overwhelming anxiety as it diffuses throughout his body _—_ but he doesn’t usually remember the details. And fuck, right now, the details are flashing so clearly behind Mickey’s eyes that he’s fairly certain he’s going to throw up.

And now? Fuck, now Mickey wants to _scream_ and he wants to keep fucking screaming until his lungs give out. 

Because missing Ian _already_ cut Mickey like a knife. Missing Ian _already_ cut Mickey deep beneath his fucking bones. 

But that bed. _Their bed._ Ian’s blanket. 

Those final, feeble pieces of comfort that Mickey had found _—_ they’re all fucking gone now, too.

But somehow, Mickey breathes.

Because he needs to fucking breathe.

He fights back the nausea.

He fights back the tears.

He fights back the urge to scream.

Instead, he focuses on breathing.

In, out. Inhale, exhale.

His hands are still shaking as he makes his way to the living room, clutching onto his phone. He stands next to the apartment door. He stares at it. He thinks.

It’s the only possible exit out of this fucking prison, short of busting through the fucking windows. And quite frankly, he doesn’t think that would get him very far. 

Not successfully, anyway.

He’s not thinking anymore. Not really. He dials the helpline on his phone, pacing his way into the kitchen. 

No answer. 

He calls again.

No answer.

He grabs a bottle of vodka from the cabinet. He calls again.

No answer. 

“Someone. Anyone. _Answer. The. Fuckin’. Phone!”_

No fucking answer.

It’s useless. It’s fucking useless. 

Mickey has absolutely fucking had it. He makes his way back to the living room.

He’s fucking done, because he can’t do this anymore. He can’t fucking do it. 

He throws the vodka hard against the apartment door, watching the bottle break as liquid spills down its steel body and onto the floor.

Mickey is staring at the door, eyes unfocused when his phone starts to ring. His brain is so fucking jumbled that he almost drops it, hands trembling as he flips the screen towards him to read the name.

_Sandy._

And of fucking course it’s Sandy, because Mickey is a fucking idiot for thinking it may actually be the helpline calling back. Fuck. Fucking Sandy.

He answers, anyway. _“What?”_

“ _Mickey,”_ she begins. She sounds incredibly distressed. “We need to talk. Right fucking now.”

He realizes that it’s not even just distress. She sounds absolutely fucking _frantic._

“Sandy, what the fuck’s goin’ on?”

“Listen to me,” she pleads. “I’m getting transferred out of here with your sister. They asked if we had family _—_ Mickey, they want to come get you.”

They want to fucking _what?_

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Mickey demands, his heart racing. “Why the fuck are you gettin’ transferred? What the _fuck_ does that have to do with me?”

“They can’t contact any of the doctors in your building,” Sandy says. She sounds breathless, almost as if she’s walking at the same time. “Mickey, they’re gonna fucking leave you there if they can’t contact anyone. Something is wrong. You need to get the fuck out.”

“Sandy, _I can’t_. I’m locked in. I can’t fuckin’ get out.”

He can’t. He fucking can’’t. _He can’t fucking get out._

Mickey feels like the walls are caving in around him. He starts to panic. Full-blown fucking panic.

Suddenly, the harsh blare of an alarm starts wailing through the building.

Mickey flinches, ducking down as he reaches up to cover a hand over each of his ears.

It takes Mickey a full three seconds to realize that he dropped his phone.

A red light begins to flash, suppressing the apartment’s typical lighting as it strobes in a jarring _on, off, on, off_ pattern. Mickey squints his eyes. He tries to adjust his vision, tries to focus as the light continues to flash, and as the siren continues to blare. 

And when he finally finds his phone, it’s in a shattered heap of pieces in front of the door. 

The screen is black. 

He lifts it to his ear, desperately. “Sandy? Sandy, _fuck,_ can you hear me?”

No response comes.

He taps it, holds down its buttons, bangs it against the back of his hand. 

The screen remains black.

And Mickey crumbles to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	13. Week 11 (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! This chapter was a very exciting one to write, and I really hope you enjoy it.  
> It's the longest yet, and I really hope it was worth the wait! The next chapter will conclude this story in its current timeline, and the final chapter will serve as more of an epilogue, set in the future.  
> Thank you all for riding along on this journey with me :)

Week 11 (Part 1)

Red. Obtrusive, jarring flashes of red.

The emergency light engulfs the apartment, blazing harshly behind Mickey’s eyes even as he squeezes them shut. It’s a violent assault on his senses, as the deafening noise of the alarm continues to blare gratingly through the building. 

Unsurprisingly, Mickey begins to feel the relentless stabbing of a fast-forming headache. 

It’s been eleven weeks, almost. Eleven fucking weeks, and not once has there ever been a siren or the blinding flash of emergency lighting. 

There’s never been fucking _anything,_ and Mickey doesn’t think he wants to know what that means.

He does know, with adamant fucking certainty, that nobody _ever_ told them about any kind of emergency alarm system. Also not exactly surprising, because nobody told them much of fucking _anything,_ except for Dr. Seaver.

Fucking Dr. Seaver, who Mickey assumes is long fucking gone at this point.

Just like Ian. Long fucking gone.

For all the fuck Mickey knows, the building is about to go up in fucking flames. Either that, or he’s about to get his ass mauled to death. 

Quite fucking frankly, he can’t decide which option is worse.

He feels frozen. His mind is spiraling. His heart is racing. His body is _shaking._

He opens his eyes to squint down at his phone. 

His useless fucking iPhone, his only connection to the outside world, shattered and dead on the floor beside his feet.

He thinks about the phone call. He wonders why the fuck Sandy and Mandy are getting transferred. In the midst of a lockdown, after confirmed exposure, why the _fuck_ are they getting transferred? 

And _why the fuck_ would they want to come get Mickey, too? 

Sandy sounded so fucking distraught. 

_They can’t contact any of the doctors in your building._

It’s fucking with him, but Mickey doesn’t think he expected any different, truthfully. He hasn’t heard from the doctors in nearly a week, and he’s not a fucking dumbass. 

They’re probably fucking dead. 

At some point over the last few days, something clearly went horribly fucking wrong.

And it feels real, now. He’s the last man fucking standing, with no means of escape. Like someone is looking in on Mickey, laughing at him, pointing a condescending finger and calling fucking checkmate on his inescapable fate. 

Check. Fucking. Mate.

And in the end, it doesn’t matter.

Because in the end, Mickey is alone. 

In the end, it’s just Mickey. 

Just fucking Mickey. Unfortunate and _fucked_ just like he’s been for the entirety of his miserable fucking life. Unfortunate enough to be stuck in the most horrible of nightmares, waiting to die an _equally_ as miserable fucking death. Because it’s painstakingly obvious to him now, virus or no virus, that he’s not making it out of this building alive. 

And it’s just so fucking _bad._ It’s so incredibly, nauseatingly bad. 

Mickey might not be sick but he’s still going to fucking die here, whether he rots away to nothing or gets killed by _something,_ he’s not entirely sure. 

And maybe that’s what the alarm is. A warning. Not a fire alarm, but an alarm for something so much worse. 

Something so much fucking worse.

What a fucking horrible irony it would be, to die the same way as Terry, killed by a fucking Strain 2 anomaly.

As if Mickey fucking deserves that.

As if Mickey fucking _deserves_ to die the same gruesome death as his shitbag excuse of a father.

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want this. 

And as he sits there, hunched on the floor with his knees pulled up to his fucking chest, he thinks that maybe, surprisingly, _he_ _wants to live_. 

Somehow, after everything, he wants to fucking live. And it’s shocking, almost. Because he’s spent so many days at rock bottom. He’s spent so many days _accepting_ death. He’s spent so many fucking days _wishing_ for death. 

And now, thinking of Ian’s words, he thinks that he might be changing his mind.

_You’re going to be okay._

Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or maybe it’s instinct kicking in—survival mode and all that shit. 

Or maybe he’s just straight up fucking stubborn. 

But, for Ian, maybe Mickey could try to be okay. 

If he gets through this, fucking _somehow,_ maybe he could try to be okay. But in order to be okay, he needs to get the fuck out. And in order to get the fuck out, he needs to fucking _try._

He needs to fucking try. 

And so, he takes a deep breath. 

He focuses on adjusting his eyes; tries his damnedest to ignore the flashing light and the roaring siren. He pulls himself up off the floor and reaches for the door handle, jiggling it back and forth.

It’s locked, obviously, but he tries anyway. 

He yanks it towards him, jiggles it with more force when it still won’t budge.

And then he fucking kicks it.

Once, twice, three times.

It hurts his foot like a motherfucker because it’s made of _steel._ And because it’s made of steel, kicking it is absolutely fucking useless, but he does it anyway. 

He pounds his fist against it, then pounds _both_ fists against it, and then he kicks it again. 

Nothing happens. Nothing fucking happens, and nothing is _going_ to happen. And Mickey _screams._ Just a mangled, frustrated shout. Because he’s desperate and he’s _trapped_ and he wants to get the fuck out. 

He thinks. He tries to think of something—fucking _anything—_ that could help him break open the door. 

But as he thinks, the stabbing of his headache grows increasingly stronger. 

Mickey decides that, before anything else, he needs to get away from the fucking lights, and he needs to get away from the fucking sound. His head is fucking pounding and he can’t concentrate on a single goddamn thing. 

If nothing else, at the very _least,_ he needs some fucking darkness.

He decides to try the bathroom. 

The lights make his head spin as he makes his way through the apartment, squinting through the incessant flash. 

When he reaches the bathroom, he shuts himself inside, locking the door behind him. He turns off the overhead light and slumps down to the floor, immediately relieved to find that the entire room goes dark around him. 

The _on, off_ of the light casted beneath the door is still visible, but it’s far less noticeable. 

The closed door only muffles the noise at best, but it’s better than nothing, and Mickey feels like he can finally fucking breathe. 

With a little bit of relief and a faux sense of comfort within the dark bathroom, Mickey tries to figure out _what the fuck_ his next move is.

If the doctors can’t be contacted, then _how_ _exactly_ can Mickey pull this off? 

How can he pull this off, when his apartment door is locked, and the doctors—unaccounted for—have the keys to unlock the entire fucking building? 

It’s a piss-poor fucking escape plan, Mickey thinks, because what the _fuck_ is the point of an alarm system if your ability to leave depends on a few useless doctors? 

At least _unlock the fucking doors_ as part of your brilliant emergency system. 

Did anyone _really_ expect this to end in an organized, safe fucking fashion? 

Come the fuck on. 

It would be one thing if he only had to think of himself. If it was just him, he’d get the fuck over it. If he couldn’t get out, fine. In the end, at least he tried. Let him fucking die, if there’s no other option. It’s what he expected all along, anyway.

But what about Ian? What the fuck _happened_ to Ian? There is no way, absolutely no way, that Ian could have made it through this. It’s already been close to a fucking week. Mickey can’t fucking tell time anymore because he’s hiding in a bathroom and _his phone is broken_ but he’s pretty sure the clock is winding down really fucking quickly. 

And damn, what a fucking metaphor that is. 

It dawns on him then, as he thinks about his phone, that _Ian’s phone_ is still sitting on the bedside table where Mickey left it. 

Untouched and fully charged. 

And he needs to fucking get it.

He glances back at the locked bathroom door, and his anxiety starts to build. The bathroom feels _safe,_ and Mickey feels like he’s at an impasse as his body fights his brain to make a fucking decision. 

He could go for it. He could make a run for it and grab the phone from the bedroom, but somehow, it feels like a risk. 

And then, for just a moment, the _on, off_ pattern of the flashing light seems to change. 

It goes dark for a second too long, like it’s being obstructed by a shadow. 

Which means, to Mickey’s dismay, that he isn’t alone anymore. 

Goosebumps rise across Mickey’s skin as he stares at the door, frozen in place.

The shadow is gone as quickly as it appears, but it’s enough. He can feel himself starting to panic, and the panic is rising and seeping into every broken fragment of his body. 

And he tries to breathe. He tries to focus on his breathing. He closes his eyes. He thinks about Ian, thinks about Ian helping him during his last panic attack, holding onto him until it passed. 

Until he felt like he was grounded again. 

And it helps. 

Thinking about him hurts so fucking bad but it helps, and he inhales deeply as he tries to calm down.

There’s no good way to do this. There’s no way to plan this right. He needs to fucking get that phone, and he needs to get out. 

And if someone, or _something_ , is in his apartment, there’s also a damn good chance that the door is wide fucking open.

He stands up from the floor, reaching to unlock the door slowly. The alarm is still blaring, and Mickey thinks that’s going to work in his favor, since he doesn’t have to worry about being heard.

He cracks open the door, readjusting his eyes to the flashes of red as he peers across the hallway. The bedroom door is closed, but it’s so close. It’s so fucking close, and he needs to go.

Mickey runs. He runs across the hallway, twists the handle and rushes through the door, with careful consideration to not slam it shut behind him.

His heart is racing as he leans against the back of the door, closing his eyes for a moment. There’s an emergency light in the bedroom, too, and he’s sick to fucking death of the ache it leaves behind his eyes.

He tries to steady his breathing. 

He tries to stay calm.

He needs to fucking focus. 

Get the phone, and get the fuck out. 

And hope, for the love of fucking _God_ , that the apartment door is open.

He makes his way to the bedside table, eyes adapting to the light once more. He trips over the fucking charging cord, muttering a quiet _fuck_ under his breath as he catches his balance. 

Mickey looks down at the bedside table. 

He stares at it for a second. Blinks twice.

And he thinks that he must be going fucking crazy. He thinks he has _officially_ lost his fucking mind, once and for fucking all. 

Because Ian’s iPhone is _gone._

He turns back towards the door. He looks around the room. 

He thinks. He thinks. He fucking thinks.

He left it there, after he had spoken to Lip. 

He plugged it back in. He fucking knows he did. 

There’s absolutely no way he didn’t. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

New plan. New fucking plan. Get the fuck out of the bedroom, _hope the apartment door is open,_ and fucking run. 

Run, like he used to run from the cops. 

Run, like he used to run from Terry.

Just. Fucking. Run.

Mickey opens the door.

He peaks around the corner.

And then, he fucking _bolts_.

He skids into the living room, and sure enough, the door is open.

The fucking door is open. 

For the first time in eleven weeks, it’s open. Not for a doctor check in, but just freely fucking _open._

Mickey can leave.

If he can get to the door, he can fucking _leave._

The alarm is blaring, the red light is flashing, and Mickey needs to fucking run.

And yet, he hesitates. 

It seems too easy, somehow. Like a scenario straight out of a fucking movie, with the door wide open in front of him, tempting him forward. 

It just seems too fucking easy.

He glances around the apartment. He sees nothing. There’s nobody and _nothing_ obstructing his path, and he’s wasting precious time, but he feels like he’s frozen.

Because _somebody_ opened the fucking door. 

And, as if that isn’t enough, he hasn’t stepped foot through that doorway in eleven fucking weeks. 

It’s scary, and Mickey isn’t afraid to admit it. 

And before Mickey can think, or react, or even fucking _breathe,_ he’s getting pulled backwards by his waist, a hand rushing up to cover his mouth.

He yells out a muffled cry _,_ fighting to jerk away from the hands holding him back. 

It reminds him of his nightmare, except it’s not a fucking nightmare. It’s not a nightmare at all, and Mickey is _panicking_ as he squirms and kicks and tries to fucking fight as hard as his body will let him. 

The lights go pitch-fucking-black in the apartment at the same moment, and the alarm cuts off mid-ring. Mickey screams louder against the hand muffling his mouth, the darkness surrounding him somehow so much fucking _worse_ now that he can’t see a goddamn fucking thing. 

Mickey gets pulled back until he’s being shoved into the bathroom; the arm around his waist holding him tightly while the other remains on his face. 

There are words whispered that he can’t quite make out, because he’s far too fucking frantic and his ears are ringing and ringing and fucking _ringing_ in the siren’s wake. 

He’s not registering a damn thing as he shoves an elbow back against his assailant, earning a strangled grunt in response. The hands around him let up slightly, and it’s just enough for Mickey to break free. 

And again, he’s about to _run_.

He’s not fucking quick enough, though, as he gets shoved hard into the back of the door, the weight of his own body slamming it closed behind him. He feels two hands against his shoulders instantly, pressing him back against the door.

Then, a whisper. 

_“Mickey.”_

It registers more, this time. His name.

_Mickey._

Just his name, just a whisper. 

But it’s familiar. So familiar. 

“ _Ian?”_

Mickey feels like the air is getting punched out of his lungs. He drags his hand along the side of the wall, searching for the light switch. He manages to find it, flicking it up and down unsuccessfully.

The power is out, clearly. Mickey realizes that the emergency system must have been attached to the building’s power source, too. 

The hands pressing into his shoulders release him suddenly, but this time, Mickey doesn’t try to run.

“Mickey, it’s me,” he says. _Ian says._ “You’re okay, Mick. You’re okay.”

Mickey isn’t actually sure that he’s okay at all, though. He feels absolutely fucking paralyzed. 

A light catches his eye a second later, and he realizes that it’s Ian’s cell phone.

Ian swipes on the flashlight app, illuminating the bathroom as he reaches over to set the phone on the edge of the sink. It’s not much, but it’s enough for them to see each other.

It’s enough for Mickey to see Ian.

For a moment, that’s all Mickey can fucking do. He looks up into Ian’s eyes, and he _stares._

Mickey stares at Ian, and Ian stares back at Mickey. 

It feels like the world is slowing down around him. Like the hourglass _stops_.

The hourglass; the one that Mickey’s been imagining in his mind for the last eleven weeks. 

The one controlling their fate.

_The hourglass just fucking stops._

And Mickey has so many questions. He has so many fucking questions and he needs answers and he’s so fucking overwhelmed but he can’t _stop staring._

He’s about to ask something, maybe. He’s not sure _what_ he’s about to ask, and he’s distracted and he’s lost about a million fucking miles off the beaten path, staring into Ian’s eyes, but he’s definitely about to ask _something_ —and then Ian leans down and kisses him.

And Mickey _melts._

Mickey closes his eyes and he fucking melts. 

Into the door, into the hands wrapped around his waist, _into Ian_ , Mickey fucking melts.

He slides his hands around the back of Ian’s neck, holding him close, clinging to him like he’s afraid to let go. And yeah, maybe he _is._ Maybe he is afraid, because he can’t believe this is real, and Mickey never wants to let go of him again. 

Never fucking again. 

Ian’s hands are pressing into Mickey’s back as they continue to kiss, shuffling around kind of frantically, as if he’s having trouble deciding on where he wants them most. 

Mickey gets it, so much. He fucking gets it, because he missed Ian so fucking much and he wants him _everywhere._

Forever, Mickey wants Ian everywhere. 

Fucking forever.

Everywhere, every day, in every _lifetime,_ Mickey wants Ian fucking forever.

Mickey is certain, absolutely fucking certain, that there are more pressing matters at hand. But instead of asking questions, he _stared,_ and instead of having his questions _answered,_ he’s kissing and being kissed by the man that he loves. 

The man that he’s fucking in love with. 

Ian cups Mickey’s face between his hands, brushing his thumbs back and forth across his skin. 

His fingers are electric and his lips feel like home and all Mickey can feel is _love._

Mickey sighs into the kiss.

Mickey breathes Ian’s breath. 

For the first time since Ian was taken away, Mickey just fucking _breathes._

Ian breaks the kiss reluctantly after a few more seconds, hands still holding Mickey’s face.

And there’s— _something._

As they look into each other’s eyes, there’s something.

Intangible. Magnetic. _Thrilling._

Mickey is about to spill his heart out onto the fucking floor, all for Ian to take.

He feels it bubbling up inside him, and he wants to fucking tell him. He wants to tell him again and again and _again_ that he’s fucking in love with him and he wants to tell him that he’s pretty damn sure _they’re fucking meant for each other._

But then, in an unsettling moment of clarity, there’s a loud _crash_ outside the bathroom door, somewhere within the apartment. 

Mickey flinches at the noise in the same moment that Ian reaches down to lock the door handle.

Ian’s expression looks like a combination of fear mixed with some kind of realization, and as Mickey watches him, he lifts a finger to his lips in a _shh-ing_ motion. 

And Mickey can’t exactly ask for details, but he certainly _does_ shut the fuck up. And maybe, fucking maybe, this is one of those questions that could have been asked—and answered—if Mickey hadn’t been too busy _staring_ and _kissing._

Ian grabs his phone from the sink suddenly, switching off the flashlight. He swipes the phone down to its dimmest setting, and then he spends another few seconds typing.

Mickey watches him.

He watches, and he waits.

And then, Ian holds up the phone for Mickey to read.

On the screen, typed concisely in the note app, are the words: “ _Strain 2 doctors.”_

* * *

Mickey is fucking exhausted. 

He’s sitting on the floor in the darkness of the bathroom, and he’s fucking exhausted. 

They’ve been on the bathroom floor for a few hours, probably, typing back and forth on Ian’s phone. It’s well past midnight, officially Sunday morning, and if Mickey could talk out loud right now he’d be wishing Ian a _happy eleven weeks in hell._

And Mickey hasn’t found out _everything,_ but he’s definitely found out enough. 

For starters, Dr. Seaver is still alive, and he’s currently locked inside the doctors’ suite. His fucking leg is injured, and Ian seems wildly determined to go back for him. 

Ian, meanwhile, now holds the key to the whole motherfucking castle. 

The other two doctors, the two that Mickey now refers to as _Dumb and Fucking Dumber,_ must have contracted the virus at some point along the line. 

And, you know. Not to be a fucking know-it-all, but Mickey thinks that was pretty fucking predictable. There were more doctors in the beginning, who clearly succumbed to the virus as the weeks rolled on. 

So, obviously— _fucking obviously_ —the likelihood of the remaining doctors getting sick was very fucking high. 

Not only did the two of them contract the virus; they also _helped_ each other manage their symptoms under the radar of Dr. Seaver. And they did _such_ a bang up fucking job of concealing those symptoms, that they managed to reach Strain 2 without Dr. Seaver realizing. 

Dumb and Fucking Dumber are now potentially roaming the halls of the building like wild fucking animals, and that’s great. That’s real fucking great, because Mickey just wants to grab Ian by the hand and get the fuck out but they’re _trapped_ by these dumbass fucking doctors who did this shit to _themselves_ and Mickey finds it hard to muster up any sympathy for them, under the circumstances.

Ian is also the one who set off the emergency system, although he admittedly had no idea what it was going to do. He broke a case of glass and pulled down the red lever within it, the one labeled _EMERGENCY_ in big, bold letters. If nothing else, it caused enough of a diversion for Ian to make his way back to his and Mickey’s apartment. 

Then, of course, there’s the question of Ian _himself._

Alive and well and fucking healthy as Mickey ever saw him.

And, well. That part is still somewhat unclear. 

Ian was put on a ventilator last Sunday as soon as they reached the infirmary, nearly a full week ago.

That afternoon, there was absolutely no denying it—Ian was fucking _dying,_ and his condition worsened well into the evening. 

At that point, Dr. Seaver had been nearly certain that Ian wouldn’t make it through the night.

But then, strangely, _incredibly,_ Ian started to plateau. 

Ian survived through Sunday night, the ventilator effectively doing its job. And by Monday morning, _somehow,_ Ian was no longer declining. 

For the first time known to Dr. Seaver, the virus seemed to stop progressing.

There were arguments, though.

Dr. Seaver was insistent on continuing Ian’s treatment, but Dumb and Fucking Dumber were _not._ They wanted the plug pulled early. Probably because they wanted to _leave,_ and fuck the last two remaining patients, right?

The dispute had been an ongoing battle, and Ian was awake during the fight that broke Dr. Seaver’s phone.

Dr. Seaver was pleading with them, _begging_ them to understand that Ian’s condition was of critical importance.

If Ian’s decline was plateauing, what if that meant potential recovery? 

It was a brand new scenario, but instead of using it to their advantage, Ian thinks that the other two doctors were just fucking _over it._

And Mickey gets it, sort of.

He gets that feeling of just being fucking _done._ There’s a point at which everything breaks, after all. It’s possible that Dumb and Fucking Dumber were truly at their final breaking point.

Mickey certainly had been, up until earlier today.

But, even more likely, Mickey thinks that the virus was starting to fuck with their judgment.

Ian thinks so, too.

Maybe their memories were still intact at the time, but it doesn’t sound like they were all _there._

Mickey guesses that’s probably what happened to Terry’s cellmate, before he killed him. 

At that point, any sort of rationale seemed to go out the fucking window.

When Dr. Seaver tried to make contact with outside sources, his phone was thrown to the ground and smashed to pieces. And of course, _of fucking course,_ no landline phones remained in service.

Both doctors left, after that. 

Dr. Seaver didn’t know if they planned to leave the grounds completely, or fucking _what._

Either way, they were _fucked._

No outside contact. 

And no contact with Mickey, either.

Regardless of the fucking shitshow mess of drama brewing between the doctors, by Tuesday, Ian wasn’t just plateauing. 

He was _improving._

He was more alert, and sleeping less. His fever was down by a degree. 

And, ventilator or not, that horrible, crushing pain in Ian’s chest suddenly felt _bearable._

The next few days sort of continued on in the same fashion, with Ian gaining back strength every day as his symptoms continued to diminish. 

There was no arguing it, anymore.

Ian was recovering.

During the week, Dr. Seaver spent a fuckload of time running various tests on both Ian _and_ Mickey’s blood samples. 

Unsurprisingly, again, Mickey’s weekly blood test came back negative.

But there was something else, too.

Something that Dr. Seaver couldn’t quite figure out as he continued to study their samples. And whatever it was—it had him positively stumped. 

It’s just that Ian never got around to finding out what exactly that thing was. 

By Friday, Dr. Seaver was finally able to unhook Ian from the ventilator completely. Ian’s intention had been to return to the apartment, both for Mickey and for a fucking cellphone, but that plan fell miserably short when Dumb and Fucking Dumber came crashing into the infirmary. 

And clearly, by then, all of the batshit craziness of Strain 2 had been fully fucking incubated.

Ian had been _terrified,_ fucking obviously, because after months of telltale stories and rumors about what Strain 2 actually _was,_ unexpectedly dealing with it in person was another thing entirely. His survival instincts kicked in relatively quickly, though, as he knocked one the fuck out with the fire extinguisher hanging on the infirmary wall. 

Dr. Seaver had been less fortunate, getting thrown into the pharmacy cabinet as it collapsed on top of him. He injured his leg during the incident, and whether broken or not, it fucking hurt badly enough that he wasn’t able to stand on his own.

Ian doesn’t know _how,_ but he managed to scare the remaining doctor away with the extinguisher after that, while the other laid unconscious on the floor.

The steel doors throughout the building were designed to lock automatically, which is a great feature—except on occasion, when they don’t _actually_ lock.

Ian is fairly certain that the doctor locked within the infirmary should be stuck there, but he’s not entirely sure about the other one.

At that point, Ian digresses briefly. Suddenly, the note app reads, _“Do I keep referring to them as ‘doctors’ now that they’re running around like rabid fucking wolves?”_

And Mickey fucking smiles at him, forcing back the urge to laugh. Because this entire thing is so beyond fucked and it literally could not matter _less_ what Ian chooses to call them.

But wow, he’s really fucking cute. 

And wow, Mickey _really_ fucking missed him. 

Back on track, Ian explains that he helped Dr. Seaver hobble out of the infirmary and into the doctors’ suite.

And then, they waited.

They locked themselves in, and they just fucking waited.

Honestly, Ian isn’t sure what exactly they were waiting for. 

It dawns on Mickey that waiting for anything right now is kind of pointless. Even tonight, as they hide in the darkened bathroom, they’re really just prolonging something inevitable.

But Mickey gets it. As he shuffles closer to Ian, relishing in the fact that they’re _safe_ together, even if it’s just for now, Mickey gets it. 

Rewind again, back to earlier on Saturday night, just a few hours ago.

After a fair amount of sleep and a little bit of food, Ian decided to finally make his move.

He pulled the emergency lever in the doctors’ suite— _regretted it_ —and then, fighting through the alarm and the flashing light, Ian went on his way.

He managed to make it to the apartment without much trouble, at least.

When Ian first unlocked the apartment door, he expected to find Mickey in the bedroom. When he _wasn’t,_ Ian grabbed his cellphone, instead. 

And then, yeah. 

Fast forward, and here they are, huddled together on the bathroom floor.

Mickey still has questions. So many fucking questions. Ian being here, Ian being okay at all, still seems so fucking _impossible_ that Mickey can barely believe it’s real life. But then again, Mickey remaining healthy for the duration of this mess was supposed to be fucking impossible, too. 

And he may not have those answers right now, but he _does_ have Ian. They fucking have each other, and Mickey figures that’s what the fuck matters.

At the end of the day, that’s the _only_ thing that fucking matters.

With the phone sitting on the bathroom floor and Ian’s head resting on Mickey’s shoulder, Mickey reaches for Ian’s hand to thread their fingers together. They stay like that for a little while, and even though Mickey has no fucking idea how they’re going to pull this off, he just fucking knows that they _need to pull this off._

Together.

Ian squeezes his hand, and Mickey thinks that they just fucking might.

* * *

They decide to wait until morning.

And yes, they’re _still_ prolonging this. 

They’re stalling and they’re wasting time. 

However, making their way through the pitch-black halls of a powerless building wouldn’t exactly give them the upper hand, anyway.

In the morning, they’ll be able to rely on daylight. And it won’t be perfect, but it’s certainly better than darkness.

In the meantime, they manage to fall asleep. It’s not very restful, but it’s better than nothing.

Mickey wakes up a few hours later with Ian pressed warmly against his back. It’s not exactly a picturesque moment, as they lie together on the bathroom floor, but it’s comfortable. 

Because Ian is there with him, holding him close, and it’s everything that Mickey needs.

From behind the safety of the bathroom door, the apartment seems quiet. They listened to occasional clamoring throughout the night, but it’s been hours since Mickey last heard anything. 

And that could be a good thing, if the doctor—or _doctors_ —finally left the apartment. 

Mickey feels it when Ian stirs behind him, the way he tightens his arms around Mickey and pulls him closer against his chest. Mickey closes his eyes. 

And he smiles.

He fucking smiles, because he _missed_ this, and even though they’re lying gracelessly on the bathroom floor, it feels like this is where he belongs. With Ian pressing into his back, holding Mickey close, this is where Mickey belongs.

They can’t stay here, though. And they pull apart reluctantly, as the weight of their situation settles heavily between them. 

Ian reaches for his phone to check the time, yawning tiredly.

It’s only seven o’clock, early on Sunday morning, but it’s light outside and they need to get moving.

It’s weird, the way Mickey almost feels a sense of normalcy, despite the chaos whirring around them. 

It’s like they’re caught within the eye of the storm. 

The bathroom is dimly lit by a small window behind the bathtub, letting in a fair amount of sunlight.

Mickey brushes his teeth without water, which is equally as difficult as it is disgusting, but it’s absolutely fucking necessary. 

He settles on rinsing with mouthwash, which is decidedly one of his more brilliant ideas, and Ian looks relatively impressed as he watches through the mirror.

“Innovative,” Ian comments quietly. 

“Patent fuckin’ pending,” Mickey quips back, his voice whisper-soft.

When he’s finished, Mickey sits on the edge of the bathtub, looking at Ian as he steps in front of the sink. He squeezes out a dab of toothpaste before pouring mouthwash directly over his toothbrush.

Also a good idea, Mickey thinks. 

Ian shrugs, a smile playing on his lips like it’s the best idea he’s had in a long fucking time. 

Because he’s a fucking dork. 

And Mickey fucking loves him.

Now that they have a bit of actual lighting, Mickey finds himself watching Ian closely again. 

Really, really watching. 

He stares at the freckles sprinkled across Ian’s face. He stares at Ian’s eyes, smiling when they flick over to steal a glance at Mickey, too. 

“Staring,” Ian whispers, smiling around his toothbrush.

Mickey’s pretty sure he’s not imagining it when Ian starts to blush. And fuck, that’s cute. 

Mickey doesn’t look away, though. He’s not embarrassed, and he doesn’t really feel _caught._

Because yeah, he’s staring, and _yeah,_ he thinks Ian is fucking beautiful. 

But it’s not even that. Not really. 

Not right now, anyway.

It’s the fact that Ian is _here._

It’s the fact that Ian’s here, and he’s alive, and he looks _healthy._

He’s standing, he’s strong, he’s breathing. 

He’s alive.

And despite the million and one fucking things that Mickey doesn’t understand, it’s hard to care about any of that shit, with Ian standing in front of him. It feels like Ian has been given _back_ to him, and Mickey intends on keeping him, this time. 

So, Mickey continues to stare.

Ian’s hair is long, so much longer than when Mickey first met him, eleven weeks ago. He talked about cutting it so many times—swore that he was either going to trim it himself or buzz it off completely. 

He never did, though. 

It frames more of his face, now, shaggy curls falling in an unruly manner. He hates it, Mickey knows, but Mickey thinks it suits him.

When Ian looks back at Mickey again, Mickey can’t help but wonder what he sees.

“ _Mickey,”_ Ian whispers, reaching out to take each of Mickey’s hands. “Come here.”

Ian pulls Mickey up, leans in, and kisses him. 

It’s a chaste kiss, mostly. Just a gentle press of lips.

Comforting. Reassuring. Loving. 

It feels like a promise.

When they separate, Ian grabs each side of Mickey’s face. He rests their foreheads together, like he doesn’t want to let Mickey go. 

And Mickey fucking loves him.

They stay like that for a moment. 

Mickey moves closer to him, their position changing into more of a hug as Mickey nuzzles his head into Ian’s neck. Ian slides a hand down Mickey’s chest, the other wrapping around his back. They hold each other, and it’s warm, and it’s safe. 

_And Mickey fucking loves him._

So fucking much, more than anything, Mickey fucking loves him.

* * *

As Ian unlocks the bathroom door, Mickey’s heart is racing. It’s adrenaline and it’s fear. It’s the fact that he wants to get the fuck out so _badly,_ but he has no idea how to make it to the finish line. 

And not only that—but what the fuck happens when they finally _do?_

He’s several steps ahead of himself, though, and he needs to focus on right now. He needs to focus on getting through the building, finding Dr. Seaver, and getting the fuck _out._

Getting the fuck out with Ian by his side.

And, truthfully, Mickey would probably leave Dr. Seaver behind if it meant that he and Ian could absolutely get out alive. 

It’s selfish, maybe.

Or maybe it’s just survival of the fucking fittest.

However, at the same time, Dr. Seaver kept Ian alive. Dr. Seaver gave Ian a chance that nobody else would give him. And Dr. Seaver kept Mickey as informed as he possibly could, over these last few hellish weeks.

So. Fucking fine. 

Their first stop is the doctors’ suite. 

The apartment seems empty enough, as they step quietly into the hallway. The windows provide a decent amount of daylight through the living room and kitchen, and that helps to temper Mickey’s nerves, just slightly.

Ian takes a quick detour back to the bedroom to grab his phone charger, shoving it deep into the pocket of his sweatpants. 

There are pots and pans knocked over in the kitchen, and the coffee pot is shattered in pieces on the floor. 

The door to the refrigerator is open, with food knocked over and several bottles either broken or spilled.

Mickey takes the liberty of grabbing two carving knives, shrugging when Ian raises an eyebrow. 

“I don’t want to fucking kill anyone, Mickey,” Ian whispers through gritted teeth 

“You do if it’s fuckin’ kill or _be_ killed,” Mickey argues. “Take the knife, bitch.”

He sets it firmly in Ian’s hand, and he fucking means it.

All things considered, maybe trashing their kitchen and rummaging through the food supply had been enough to distract the doctors, before they got bored enough to finally move on.

After another few moments of inspecting the apartment, as Mickey reaches the open door with Ian by his side, he takes a deep breath.

It’s been eleven weeks.

He hasn’t stepped foot through that door in eleven fucking weeks.

But it’s time, now. 

He feels Ian step behind him, close to him, putting a hand softly on Mickey’s shoulder. 

They’re together, and it’s time to fucking go.

And it’s funny, as they finally exit the apartment, the hallway stretching further than Mickey remembers, that Mickey doesn’t really feel all that different.

It’s not like there’s any sense of _freedom_ or epiphanic realization. It’s just Mickey and Ian and a chance at a new beginning, maybe, if they can make it that far. 

And that’s enough. 

There’s one window on each side of the hallway, casting a fair amount of light across their path. 

They need to be quiet, they need to be fast, and they need to get to the floor above them.

And then, as quietly as they possibly can, they run. From one side of the hallway to the other, they run. 

It’s a rush, an absolute fucking rush, because for so long, Mickey’s been waiting to run.

For so long, with Ian by his side, Mickey’s been waiting to fucking run.

And now, Mickey never wants to look back. 

* * *

It’s weird. The building itself looks so _normal._

Plain and typical, except maybe for the doors; battered wood having been replaced with heavy steel. 

Months ago, this building had been filled with residents. Poor, unfortunate fucking people just like Mickey. Just like Ian. People with lives and families. People with hopes and dreams. 

And they’re all fucking gone, now. 

It’s horribly devastating, and Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck makes him different.

Or what the fuck makes Ian different, either. 

They reach the other side of the hall, and Ian unlocks the door to the stairway. They push it open, and it’s much darker, without a window to offer any lighting.

Ian swipes on the flashlight app, and they begin to climb the stairs. 

Mickey feels like he’s gaining a tiny bit of confidence with every step. This shit is a piece of fucking cake, right? Mickey has beaten the shit out of _plenty_ of arguably barely-human douchebags throughout his life—he’s got nothing to be afraid of, now.

He feels a hand brush against his back suddenly, like maybe Ian needs to stop for a moment. 

So, Mickey stops. He’s confused, and a little bit disoriented, but he stops.

Ian, however, does _not_ stop. 

In fact, Ian is three steps ahead of Mickey now, his phone lit up within his pocket.

But there’s still a hand on Mickey’s back.

And when it finally registers, Mickey _screams._

He turns around in a fucking panic, kicking his leg forward and grunting as _something—_ Dumb or Fucking Dumber—grabs onto Mickey’s foot in an attempt to pull him back down. 

Mickey loses his balance as he gets yanked further downward, and his back collides hard against the edge of the steps. The knife falls out of his reach, and Mickey watches helplessly as it clatters its way down the stairs. 

The pain from the fall erupts sharply through his body, but Mickey does his best to ignore it, kicking his free foot outward as he struggles to get away. He manages to kick the fucking thing in its chest, hard enough to send it tumbling backwards.

Mickey hears it hit the bottom of the stairs with a _thud._

In the same moment, Ian is grabbing Mickey by his shoulders, pulling him upright and pushing him forward. He guides Mickey up the stairs in front of him, keeping a hand on Mickey’s back, _protecting him,_ and before Mickey even realizes it, they’ve reached the top step.

Ian hands Mickey the second knife, and Mickey takes it, holding it steady against his side. If they need to use it, he’s fucking ready this time. 

Suddenly, from down the stairwell, the _thing_ —injured and quite possibly paralyzed—starts fucking _shrieking._

Ian fumbles with the key, hands shaking as he unlocks the door. They crash through it urgently, slamming it closed once they’re both safely on the other side. Ian locks it again, returning to Mickey’s side in a heartbeat, comforting hands sliding down his back and over his shoulder. 

“Holy _fuck,_ ” Ian says, trying to catch his breath. “Are you okay? _”_

That’s a good question. Mickey’s heart is hammering in his chest and he’s sweaty as fuck as he struggles to catch his breath, too. 

Is he okay, though? 

Yeah. I mean, his back hurts like a bitch and that’s gonna leave a nasty fucking bruise, but he’s okay. 

He’s alive, and that’s something.

“I’m okay enough,” Mickey says.

They really don’t have time to waste right now, and they need to keep fucking moving. 

The hallway is nearly identical to the floor beneath it, complete with a window on each end. 

Ian grabs Mickey’s hand, squeezes it once, and then he starts running. 

With their fingers slotted together, they just fucking _run._

He knows where they’re going, and Mickey trusts him. 

More than anything, Mickey fucking trusts him.

Ian comes to a stop about halfway down the hall, and the infirmary is instantly noticeable. 

A portion of the building has been very obviously altered, sealed behind a double set of red steel doors. Ian slips the master key into the lock, stepping over the threshold and pulling Mickey behind him. He shuts the door securely once they’re both inside. 

Mickey finds himself pausing for a moment, adjusting his eyes as Ian lights up his flashlight app once again. 

The room serves as more of a vestibule, branching off in two different directions. There’s another red steel door to the left, the words _INFIRMARY_ written across its center. And to the right, a plain steel door—identical to the others within the building. 

“That’s the doctors’ suite,” Ian explains, answering Mickey’s unspoken question. 

Ian unlocks the door in question, and the two of them slip quietly inside. 

This is definitely along the lines of what Mickey was expecting. They’re in another vestibule, obviously designed with the intention of controlling a contagion. It appears to have been primarily meant for changing out of protective equipment, before entering into the doctors’ living quarters.

Obviously, despite their best efforts, it hadn’t been enough to keep the virus out.

And really, Mickey sort of wonders what that could mean for Dr. Seaver, too. 

Mickey likes Dr. Seaver a lot. He’s a good fucking guy, and he wants to help him. But really, as he continues to think about it, he’s not certain that they should trust him. 

What if he’s sick, too? 

What if he tried to hide his symptoms, too?

As Ian moves to unlock the second door, Mickey ultimately chooses to keep his mouth shut. But he has the knife ready, and he’s prepared to fucking use it, if he needs to. 

They enter through the second doorway, and when nobody immediately lunges at them, Mickey considers that to be a good sign. 

He looks around the room, scanning their surroundings, and it’s almost _anticlimactic_ when he finally spots Dr. Seaver, sitting on a couch directly across from the entrance. He’s holding up a flashlight, an _actual_ flashlight, and Mickey squints as it passes over his face. 

For the first time, at least in front of Mickey, Dr. Seaver is wearing normal clothes. It makes sense, knowing that he’s already been exposed, but Mickey never once pictured him in anything besides that fucking astronaut suit.

“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Dr. Seaver says over a laugh, like he’s in complete and total disbelief as he stares at them from across the room. 

Mickey drops the knife, breathing out a heavy sigh of relief. If Dr. Seaver has the wherewithal to spit stupid idioms at them, Mickey figures that he must at least be in his right fucking mind. 

“What?” Ian asks with a small smile. “Thought we’d leave without you, huh?”

Dr. Seaver shakes his head as they approach him. He looks exhausted, but it’s overshadowed by the awestruck look on his face. It’s clear that he never expected Ian to return, and probably even less expected him to return with Mickey.

“Mr. Gallagher, if I may—you’re _truly_ worth your weight in gold.”

Mickey smiles at that. He can’t exactly tell in the dark, but he’s almost certain that Ian is blushing.

“You saved my life,” Ian says. “The least I can do is help you get the fuck outta here, now.”

Dr. Seaver’s eyes flick over to Mickey’s briefly, before returning his full attention to Ian. 

“I treated your symptoms,” Dr. Seaver says, like he’s gently correcting him. “But I didn’t _save_ you.”

“Kinda did, though,” Mickey adds. He takes a step closer to the couch, offering Dr. Seaver a nod. “Long time, no see, Doc.”

“Mr. Milkovich,” Dr. Seaver nods back. “I’m sorry for not getting back to you earlier this week.”

“Y’know, Doc, that’s okay. Kinda seems like you were a little busy.”

Busy. Yeah, just a little bit.

Busy keeping Ian alive.

Busy taking care of him. 

Busy never giving up on him. 

It goes unsaid, but it hangs between them, and Mickey is pretty certain that Dr. Seaver gets it.

It’s fucking invaluable; the fact that Ian is alive and here with him now. It’s worth far fucking more than Mickey could ever possibly repay.

It feels overwhelming, to say the least. Mickey just needs a few moments to breathe, here in their temporary bubble of safety within the suite. 

Dr. Seaver offers them free rein to the food supply, to which they eagerly accept. There’s a small kitchenette in the suite, and they manage to whip together two peanut butter sandwiches.

After nearly twenty-four hours without a meal, it tastes like a gourmet fucking delicacy. 

While they eat, Dr. Seaver gets to work. He uses Ian’s phone in an attempt to reach his outside contacts, and Mickey tries to keep himself from eavesdropping.

He’s pulled from his thoughts when Ian pokes him in the shoulder, handing him a second sandwich.

“Not sure about you, but I could eat ten of these right now,” Ian says. “I _won’t_ , but I could.”

Mickey drains the remaining water from his glass, nodding as he sets it on the counter. “First thing we do when this is all over, is get us some real fuckin’ food.”

Although, truthfully, when this is all over, Mickey really just hopes that they’re both still _breathing_.

“I’m thinking steak,” Ian suggests. “Or pizza. Or maybe _both.”_

Mickey is about to agree—except, suddenly, and with absolutely no warning, Mickey finds himself getting kissed. Before he can fucking blink, Ian has him pinned back against the counter. 

He kisses him, and he _kisses_ him.

There’s one hand on the side of his neck, another on his waist, as Ian deepens the kiss. It’s not heated, necessarily. But it’s good. And Mickey is smiling; smiling into the kiss, smiling against Ian’s lips. He can feel Ian smiling, too.

He tastes like mouthwash and peanut butter.

And he tastes like Ian.

Which makes Mickey smile more.

“Sorry,” Ian whispers after a moment, their lips still pressed together.

Mickey feels dazed, but he certainly knows enough to know that Ian has no reason to apologize.

“What the fuck for?” Mickey asks, the words muffled by Ian’s mouth.

And Ian exhales, a breathy sort of laugh. “I guess it’s not exactly the time or place for this, Mick.”

Mickey wholeheartedly disagrees with that. 

Nothing is guaranteed, absolutely fucking nothing, and Mickey is going to kiss Ian if he goddamn fucking wants to.

“Seems like the time and place,” Mickey argues.

There’s never been a better fucking time, actually.

Mickey has an enormous list of regrets; ones that will surely haunt him for all of fucking eternity if they don’t make it to the end of this. 

But he’s really fucking adamant that _not kissing Ian enough_ doesn’t end up on that list.

He kisses Ian a little bit harder; slides his hands along his neck until they’re resting at the nape, fingers raking gently through his hair. Ian makes a little humming noise as Mickey leads the kiss, and Mickey just _really_ fucking loves that sound.

Mickey gets distracted, suddenly, as he shuffles his feet to take a step forward. It feels like he’s stepping on something, like a bottle cap or a pen. He pulls away from Ian abruptly, looking at the floor beneath them, although he can’t exactly see anything in the darkness. He picks up the flashlight from the counter, pointing it downwards to find the object in question.

Ian spots it first, crouching down to pick it up from beside their feet.

He holds it up, and it appears to be a tube of blood with Mickey’s name on it.

“The fuck?” Mickey asks, taking it from Ian’s hand. 

Ian’s eyebrows are furrowed like he’s thinking.

It’s not like there aren’t samples of Mickey’s blood floating around the building. Of course there are—he’s had at least ten fucking blood samples taken, over the last few months. 

Same with Ian. Same with everyone.

It’s just that Mickey has no idea how or why one of his samples ended up _here._

Here, in the doctors’ suite. 

Because, if Dr. Seaver and Ian ran out of the infirmary in a fucking frenzy, that would imply that Dr. Seaver already had the blood tube on his person when they left. 

And—why the fuck would that be, exactly?

Mickey glances across the room at Dr. Seaver, still busy conversing on Ian’s phone.

And it’s fucking peculiar, as Mickey tries to piece together the puzzle, when it dawns on him that it’s actually been pretty fucking _obvious_ this entire time. 

This entire time, week after week, it’s been right in front of their fucking faces.

Negative blood tests.

Never a single symptom. 

Even after Ian became sick enough to nearly fucking die. 

And most of all, the fact that he _didn’t._

Because, why?

_Why didn’t Ian die?_

Mickey thinks back to Sandy’s frantic phone call.

_They asked if we had family_ _—_ _Mickey, they want to come get you._

And Mickey didn’t get it, then. It made no fucking sense to him, at the time.

Because what fucking difference did it make to _anyone,_ if Mickey got out alive?

But it clicks, now.

Suddenly, it all fucking clicks.

Mickey’s fucking blood, or his fucking genes, or his fucking _something_ _—_ can destroy the virus. 

And probably not just Mickey, either. 

He’s nearly fucking certain that it’s also the reason Sandy and Mandy were transferred without explanation, too. 

It makes sense, now.

It all makes fucking sense.

Something in the Milkovich DNA, potent enough to either fight off or fucking resist the very same virus that’s been wiping out humanity throughout the entire fucking world.

Holy fuck, what a curveball.

A monumental, inconceivable fucking curveball. 

“Why the hell do you think he has your blood?” Ian asks suddenly, completely oblivious to the chaos ensuing within Mickey’s mind.

Mickey looks back at Ian, then. 

Ian. Alive and well and fucking healthy.

Because of _Mickey._

“That’s a good fuckin’ question,” Mickey finally says, rolling the blood tube between his fingers. 

A good fucking question, indeed. 

And the answer, this entire fucking time, has been Mickey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	14. Week 11 (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't believe I'm saying this, but, we're really at the end! 
> 
> Thank you guys for being patient with my delay in posting. The extra time in between allowed me to complete both final chapters, so I could ultimately post them together. This chapter concludes the current timeline, and the next follows with a time jump, and should also answer any remaining questions. 
> 
> I'll save my mushy, end of fic author notes for the final chapter :)  
> For now, I'll just say that I really hope you love this one<3

Week 11 (Part 2) 

When Mickey thinks back on his life, going through the motions of broken memories and wasted moments, he doesn’t ever quite reach the point of finding a purpose for himself. 

Instead, he always comes up short. He gets stuck on dead end roads and missed opportunities. 

He gets stuck on the fact that the entirety of his life, up until now, had been built on the predetermined notion that Mickey Milkovich—born and raised South Side fucking punk—was destined for _nothing_. 

Because he always, _always,_ felt like nothing.

Mickey was never supposed to make anything of himself, and everyone fucking knew it. 

Mickey fucking knew it, too.

And he had to _listen_ to it. He heard the way people talked about him around the South Side, when he was growing up. He heard it whispered behind his back in jail; the way other inmates expected him to fucking rot away in prison.

_“That Milkovich boy? Oh, he'll serve a life sentence, someday. Either that, or he’ll go down in a deathmatch with his old man before he even makes it to twenty-five.”_

That’s the kind of shit Mickey heard, throughout his childhood and straight through the more recent years of his life. And for a while, he believed it. For a while, Mickey sort of expected that for himself, too. 

It’s fucking bizarre, really, as he stands there in the darkness of the doctors’ suite, to think that he may _actually_ have a purpose. Like maybe his entire life, in retrospect, had been leading up to something more. 

And Mickey isn’t trying to jump the fucking gun, here. He’s not _assuming_ that he’s got some kind of magic fucking cure running through his veins.

But it just makes _sense._

Forget humanity, for fuck’s sake. It’s enough for Mickey to know that maybe, fucking _maybe,_ he could be the reason that Ian fucking recovered. 

And that’s sure worth fucking something, isn’t it? 

After a life spent feeling like _nothing_ , to know that he may have saved someone’s life—to know that he may have saved _Ian’s_ life. 

Which is fitting, really.

Because once Ian came into Mickey’s life, he finally, fucking finally, felt like he was _something._

Once Ian shoved his way past Mickey’s walls, mending Mickey’s broken parts with pieces of himself. 

Suddenly, Mickey felt like he was something. 

Something— _someone—_ with a purpose. 

After almost twelve weeks of living in an upturned reality, one with absolutely no sense of reason, this shit is _just_ crazy enough to make fucking sense.

And, although it’s all well and fucking good for Mickey to think it, what he _really_ needs is confirmation. He needs Dr. Seaver to hang up the fucking phone. No more dancing around the subject—they have some serious fucking shit to discuss. 

The second that Dr. Seaver (finally) ends the phone call, Mickey is shining the flashlight into his face and stomping over to him.

Dr. Seaver blocks the light with his hand, squinting back at Mickey. 

“Doc, we gotta fuckin’ talk,” Mickey says. 

He holds up the blood tube, and Dr. Seaver’s expression changes almost instantly. It looks like recognition, and then, realization.

“Mr. Milkovich—“ 

“Just _Mickey,_ Doc,” Mickey corrects. “You gotta stop with that formal shit.”

Dr. Seaver nods. “Right. _Mickey._ I believe that fell out of my pocket.”

He points to the blood tube, and then holds out his hand. Mickey hesitates, just briefly, before dropping it into his palm.

“Yeah, I got that. Why the fuck do you _have_ it _?”_ Mickey asks. 

Ian is at his side now, fucking clueless, and it hits Mickey a little hard, as he thinks about it again. 

Ian is alive. Ian is okay.

Ian is _standing right fucking next to him._

“I think you’ve figured it out,” Dr. Seaver says, almost as if he’s— _impressed,_ maybe?

“Figured what out?” Ian asks.

Truly, _completely,_ absolutely fucking clueless.

Dr. Seaver meets Mickey’s eyes, as if a silent moment of understanding passes between them. He looks back at Ian with just a touch of a smile on his face.

“Make no mistake, we have further testing to do,” Dr. Seaver begins. “But. It is possible, Mr. Gallagher, that Mickey is largely responsible for your recovery.”

And, there it is. 

It hits Mickey hard in the chest, to hear it spoken out loud. Ian looks at Mickey, and even in the dark room, illuminated only by flashlight, Mickey can see the startled look on his face.

After months and months of struggling to adapt to a crumbling world, after _almost_ twelve weeks in total lockdown, after weeks of denial and acceptance and grieving, after weeks of falling in love and falling apart and _falling back together—_ Ian is alive because of Mickey.

As if Ian hadn’t already filled Mickey with a newfound sense of purpose. 

As if Ian hadn’t already, fucking finally, given Mickey a reason to live _._ As if Ian hadn’t already, in the most unexpected and astounding way, _saved Mickey’s life._

And in the end, after everything, it seems pretty fucking appropriate. Because—how fucking incredible is it? How fucking incredible is it to think that, maybe, Mickey managed to save Ian’s life, too?

Incredible, but also so, _so_ fucking much to process. And it’s more than clear, as Mickey studies Ian’s expression, that the perplexity of the situation is written all over his face. 

“I don’t— _how?_ ” Ian asks, struggling to find the words. “How is that possible?”

Ian isn’t dumb, but Mickey thinks he sees the world a bit too methodically. It’s easy to miss things, sometimes, when you expect every question to have a sensible answer. 

“It’s a theory that we plan on researching further,” Dr. Seaver says. “I know it’s a lot, and I know you have questions, but _first_ , we have to focus on getting out of here.”

And yeah, fine, he’s fucking right about that. 

Ian’s face suddenly becomes unreadable, after that, in an almost troubling sort of way. And Mickey notices, of _course_ he notices, but he doesn’t have time to figure it out. He doesn’t have time to talk to him or pick his brain.

But there’s something unsettling about it, creating a nagging knot in Mickey’s stomach.

And sure, maybe Ian is just confused. 

Really, who the fuck _wouldn’t_ be confused? 

Mickey sure as hell is, too. Or—maybe he’s trying to take it all in, thinking about it, getting stuck in his own head as he tries to come up with his own conclusions.

Mickey asks, “You okay?” right as Dr. Seaver insists that they get moving. 

And, although Dr. Seaver sounds polite as ever, there’s an urgency to his voice that Mickey knows can’t be ignored. 

As Ian lifts Dr. Seaver’s arm around his shoulder, helping to steady him on his injured leg, he glances at Mickey fleetingly.

The lights flicker on suddenly, and the drastic change instantly hurts Mickey’s eyes. It’s been either flashing red or complete darkness for the last few fucking days, and Mickey swears he almost forgot what normal lighting actually looked like. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, trying to pull Ian’s attention back to him. Once he looks over, Mickey asks again, “Are you okay?”

And, instead of _saying_ anything, instead of offering Mickey any actual form of reassurance, Ian nods his head once. 

Just, fucking nods. 

As if that’s supposed to be comforting or convincing or _anything_ at all.

It’s not.

* * *

For what it’s worth, Mickey is at least pretty damn certain that there’s finally a flicker of light at the end of this tediously long, harrowing tunnel. 

Thanks to Dr. Seaver, the journey from the doctors’ suite down to the building’s main lobby isn’t nearly as difficult as anticipated. 

During Dr. Seaver’s lengthy phone call, he managed to touch base with his colleagues; the same colleagues currently in the midst of transferring Sandy and Mandy. 

With contact finally being made, they actually received _help_. First and foremost, restoring the building’s power was a key piece in allowing them to make it out with clear visibility.

After exiting the doctors’ suite, they make their way through the building with relative ease, despite Dr. Seaver’s leg. With the elevators working, it’s a clear shot down to the first floor. 

The other two doctors remain stuck behind locked doors; one in the infirmary, and the other in the stairwell, right where Ian and Mickey had left him. And honestly, after every last bit of horrific bullshit that’s been thrown at them over the last few months, Mickey thinks they were due _one_ break, at the very fucking least. 

Once the elevator door opens at the ground floor, several doctors immediately come to Dr. Seaver’s aid. They’re prepared with a wheelchair, and it’s not lost on Mickey that they aren’t wearing those dramatic fucking astronaut suits. 

As Mickey approaches the building’s doorway with Ian beside him, following behind as Dr. Seaver gets wheeled down the accessibility ramp, everything starts to feel downright fucking _b_ _izarre_. 

It's overwhelming, and the significance of _finally_ walking through those doors weighs heavily on Mickey’s chest. 

Because, damn, it feels like a lot of things.

It feels like an ending. An ending of a particularly ugly chapter; the chapter within which he once believed would be the end of his story. 

Except, _fuck._

How ironic is it, that so much of the last few months also became some of the most significant moments of Mickey’s life?

It’s a lot to digest, when Mickey thought he would fucking die here. He _expected_ to die here. And it’s crazy, absolutely fucking _crazy,_ to think about the contrast between what he expected, and what he actually found.

And there’s nothing, absolutely fucking nothing in the world, that could ever be greater than what he found with Ian.

So, when Mickey really thinks about it, maybe it wasn’t an ending at all. Because right now, it sure fucking feels like he’s at the beginning. 

The beginning of a brand new chapter; or maybe a brand new story, completely. And with a whole fucking shitload of unanswered questions, with a whole world filled with unknowns and uncertainty, where do they go from here?

And maybe, as more of an immediate concern, one that Mickey really _does_ need a fucking answer for—what the fuck is up with Ian?

They step through the doors together, and suddenly, almost _unbelievably,_ Mickey and Ian are outside. 

Mickey’s mind is racing rapidly, as the sunlight hits his skin. Direct fucking sunlight; the kind that Mickey never expected to feel again. He inhales deeply, relishing in the fresh, Chicago air. 

Ian remains quiet. Mickey looks at him, realizes that his eyes are closed. His head is tilted up, like he’s taking in the warmth from the sun. 

Time seems to move quickly, as they’re ushered into a large, black Chevy Suburban. In the back seat, Mickey grabs for Ian’s hand, and although Ian remains mostly unreadable, he still squeezes back tightly. 

As they drive away, they stare back at the apartment building, watching as it fades into the distance. It grows smaller and smaller until it’s completely out of sight, becoming nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

* * *

The drive feels long, although it’s maybe only been about forty-five minutes since they drove out of Chicago. The roads are empty in an eerie way that Mickey has really never seen before. 

He gets it, though. The world is shut down, sheltered in place. People aren’t exactly going for leisurely drives or taking road trips, and Mickey thinks you’d have to be pretty goddamn brainless to do that shit, right now. 

Ian is asleep, head resting on Mickey’s shoulder, and Mickey runs his thumb gently across his knuckles where their hands are still linked together. 

They haven’t had privacy, or any time to talk. And even when Mickey tried to ask, Ian seemed completely closed off, like he either didn’t _have_ an answer, or didn’t want to _give_ an answer. 

Mickey isn’t quite sure which of those two options is worse. 

It takes another fifteen minutes before the Suburban takes a turn, pulling into the parking lot of a sharp looking building. It’s sleek and modern, like it was intended to be a luxury apartment complex, before everything sort of collapsed. 

Mickey nudges Ian gently, doing his best not to startle him, and Ian’s eyes look exhausted once he finally opens them. 

“How long was I asleep?” Ian asks as he glances out the SUV’s windows, examining their surroundings.

“About forty-five minutes,” Mickey answers. “We’re maybe an hour outside of Chicago.”

They climb out of the back seat, Mickey stepping out first, with Ian following close behind. He shields a hand over his eyes to look around, in spite of the bright, summer sun. 

It’s sort of desolate, although Mickey doesn’t know what else he was expecting. 

The building sticks out like a sore fucking thumb, with nothing but flat terrain and open fields surrounding it, at least as far as Mickey can see.

After being instructed to enter through the front doors, they walk to the entrance in silence. Most of the doctors are tending to Dr. Seaver, setting up his wheelchair and preparing to safely bring him inside.

Meanwhile, Mickey finds that it’s really, _really_ difficult to keep his mouth shut.

It’s difficult to not pester Ian; to not bother him and repeatedly ask him if he’s okay. But since it’s obvious to Mickey that he’s _not_ okay, it’s even harder to not nag him about what the fuck is actually wrong. 

Because, really, he wants to ask over and over and fucking _over,_ until he gets a satisfying answer.

But Ian is nothing if not stubborn, and that’s been clear since the moment Mickey met him. If he doesn’t want to talk, he’s not fucking going to. 

It’s just that, this time, Mickey didn’t do anything to piss him off. He fucking _knows_ he didn’t.

And that’s maybe the worst part—the fact that Mickey feels as if he’s completely in the dark.

Just as Mickey reaches for the door handle, Ian hesitates for a moment. 

When Mickey turns to face him, Ian says, “So. Guess I should be thanking you, right?”

It’s not at all what Mickey was expecting. 

And—thanking him? What the fuck for?

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “The fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

Because, honestly, it’s the only response Mickey can think of.

“For saving my life and shit,” Ian says. “Since you’re the reason that I’m alive.”

It’s strange. Fucking strange, and Mickey doesn’t fucking get it. There’s something to Ian’s tone, something off-putting and implicit, like he’s fucking mad or agitated. 

And for fucking _what?_ Because Mickey probably had something to do with his recovery?

“Don’t really know that for sure, man. We gotta wait for more info, right? Doc Seaver didn’t exactly have a clear answer.”

Mickey knows he’s right, because without confirmation, there’s still a chance that Ian’s recovery was something else entirely. But somehow, that shit is starting to seem less likely by the minute.

When Ian doesn’t say anything, Mickey adds, “Ain’t a bad thing, though. You’re alive. What the fuck else really matters?”

Again, Ian says nothing. Instead, he just fucking shrugs his shoulders, like it’s no big deal.

And now, Mickey is starting to feel fucking _irritated._

Because Ian is offering him nothing except a subtle, brisk attitude and Mickey didn’t fucking do anything to deserve that shit.

He pulls on the door handle, lets Ian go in first, and ends up instantly distracted when someone calls, “Mickey?” as soon as he enters the building’s lobby.

It’s Sandy, sitting on a blue, vinyl couch with her phone in her hands. She drops it beside her before standing up to greet him.

“Holy shit,” Sandy says. “Been a long time, huh?”

And yeah, it really has. A few years, at least. 

Sandy looks good. Her hair is the same as Mickey remembers; something between dirty blonde and lightish brown, wild and untamed, damp from a fresh shower.

“Real fuckin’ long time,” Mickey agrees. 

They’re not about to go through pleasantries and introductions. Sandy looks at Ian, nods her head in her own version of a greeting. 

“Ian, right?” 

And, yeah. More like _Ian, obviously_.

It’s almost like she’s sizing him up, making some kind of decision now that she’s seeing him in person. She already talked to Ian briefly over FaceTime, on a night that now feels like a distant memory in Mickey’s mind. 

Ian smiles, somewhat tight-lipped. 

“That’d be me. Hi, Sandy.”

“Where’s my sister at?” Mickey interrupts, pulling Sandy’s attention back to him. 

No point in talking to Ian right now, anyway.

“Taking a shower,” Sandy says. “So, what’s the deal? Last I heard, you were stuck in your apartment, hadn’t heard from anyone in _days._ Then, out of nowhere, your phone goes dead.”

“Long fuckin’ story,” Mickey says. 

“And _you,”_ Sandy continues, turning to point at Ian. “Thought you were supposed to be fucking dead or something.”

Ian clicks his tongue. “Guess not.”

He looks _annoyed_. 

And Sandy must sense it; the fact that something just isn’t right. She raises her eyebrows, widens her eyes for a second as she glances at Mickey. 

It’s very much an expression of, _'What the fuck is his problem?'_ and, well, Mickey wishes he could give her a fucking answer.

Mickey glances around the lobby after that, at the empty vending machines in the corner, and the unoccupied front desk in the center of the room. 

When he looks back at Sandy again, he asks, “So, the fuck is all this? Who else is here?”

Sandy shrugs. “Just us, mostly. There’s a lab kind of thing down the hall—they’ve been setting it up since we got here.”

“They tell you anything?” Mickey asks. And he’s genuinely curious if the shit about Ian has been discussed beyond himself, Ian, and Dr. Seaver.

Mickey already knows that this place is different. It’s not like their last building, and nothing about it really screams _quarantine housing_ at all. 

“Just that our blood needs to be tested. Monitored. Shit like that. They think we can fight it off,” Sandy says. “The virus, you know? The guys that picked you up—they already used our blood on themselves.”

So, this definitely isn’t a complex filled with exposed patients. Mandy and Sandy, along with anyone working in the lab, are the only other residents, so far. 

This is a place for testing, as well as safety. 

A place to live on the outskirts, protected and comfortable, without the constant fear of death rearing its ugly head around the corner. 

This is a place for Mickey to donate blood, to have his samples studied, to move forward towards _something._

“Interesting,” Ian comments, suddenly. “Because, if that’s true, it’s almost like they’re cheating death, you know?”

And— _what_ the fuck is he talking about? 

Cheating death? 

Is that really what the fuck this is all about? 

“Ian, come on,” Mickey says, trying to get him to _stop._ “Nobody is cheating death. This shit ain’t like that.”

“It’s exactly like that,” Ian argues back.

And then, as Dr. Seaver gets wheeled into the building, it seems as though the time for chit-chat effectively comes to an end.

* * *

As Mickey waits for Dr. Seaver, sitting on that same blue, vinyl couch in the lobby, he definitely gives the man a fuck ton of credit. He’s a good guy; selfless in a way that most people are not.

Dr. Seaver’s leg is treated, stabilized with an orthopedic boot. It’s a high ankle sprain, not quite fractured, but it’s still fucking plenty to hurt like a bitch. 

He’s back on his feet, though, no pun intended, and no worse for wear. 

Ian is taking a nap in one of the apartments, and Mickey is just sort of, for lack of a better term, _existing._

He’s not really thinking, he’s not really focusing on anything. He’s not consumed by Ian’s bad mood. He’s not worrying _constantly_ about what his motherfucking problem is. 

Or maybe, truthfully, he can’t stop fucking thinking about any of those things.

And as Dr. Seaver hobbles over to the couch, sitting across from him in a lime green loveseat (made from that same uncomfortable vinyl), Mickey blows out an exasperated sigh.

“Mickey,” Dr. Seaver greets him. He smiles when he says it, probably pleased that he didn’t call him _Mr. Milkovich._

“Doc,” Mickey says back.

“How are you doing?”

Mickey snorts. “That’s funny. You should be a fuckin’ comedian.”

Dr. Seaver looks like he’s pitying him, somehow. And it’s sort of annoying, but it’s also sort of nice to know that, for some reason, this man has taken an interest in him _._

It’s nice to know that, maybe, he really does care.

“This is a lot to take in, Mickey. You’re doing better than most people would, under the circumstances.”

“Just—something ain’t right, Doc. Not sure what to do about it,” Mickey admits.

Because he doesn’t. 

He’s dealt with Ian’s bad moods in the past, but this is different, and it’s frustrating. It seems personal, somehow, but Mickey didn’t _do_ anything. 

He’s not about to apologize for being the fucking reason that Ian is alive, if that’s really what the fuck this is all about.

And he doesn’t know why he should _have_ to.

“It seems that Ian is having a hard time grasping the magnitude of this,” Dr. Seaver says. 

“He can join the fuckin’ club,” Mickey replies. “No fuckin’ excuse to give me so much attitude, as if I did somethin’ wrong.”

“How do you think you would feel, Mickey, if the situations were reversed?”

Mickey sighs. Dr. Seaver is _shrinking_ him with this shit, at this point.

“Don’t know. Fuckin’ grateful that I’m not dead, maybe.”

“If you found out, essentially, that you were meant to die along with many others—but by luck, your life was spared because of someone else, how would you feel?”

Mickey frowns. Because, fuck. 

Fine, he probably wouldn’t feel very _good._

He’d probably feel like he didn’t belong here. 

Or, maybe that he didn’t _deserve_ to be here.

And, okay. Mickey fucking gets it. Because Ian is probably feeling all of those things, too.

“Just. Don’t like the thought of him feelin’ that way about himself. Shit isn’t true,” Mickey says. 

And he doesn’t have to specify—he knows that Dr. Seaver already gets it.

“It’s difficult, sometimes,” Dr. Seaver says patiently. “We don’t always have control over our emotions, especially in extreme situations.”

Mickey nods, exhales through his nose. What he really needs to know is how to make it better. 

“You really are a fuckin’ shrink, huh?”

Dr. Seaver smiles. “That’s what my license says.”

“Any other words of wisdom?” Mickey asks, and it’s meant to be sarcastic, until he realizes that he actually sort of means it.

“Be patient with him,” Dr. Seaver says, his voice gentle. “And, just be his friend. Those are the two best things you can do for him, right now.”

Mickey is certainly willing to try. 

It’s not the first time that Ian has become withdrawn since Mickey met him, but this seems different; the way it feels like it’s being directed at him. And Mickey is trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, here. 

Dr. Seaver makes a point, the way he always fucking seems to, but how does that help Mickey actually fix things?

Because, for fuck’s sake, Ian was fine when he first found Mickey back at their apartment. They were _fine_. Not just fine, but happy. Happy to be together again. 

Ian fucking kissed him, in the dark, surrounded by fear and uncertainty and chaos. They fucking kissed each other, and held each other, and it felt right. It felt _right_ because they were together again and Ian was okay. 

And, somehow, _that_ Ian feels like he’s a lifetime away.

It was shortly after they hooked up, when it happened for the first time. Ian had been mad at Mickey for avoiding him, but that shit was different. Mickey deserved that. 

It was after they made up, after the news broke about turning off ventilators, when they decided to focus on building a friendship. 

Ian sort of just caved in on himself, after that.

But Mickey fucking got it. Mickey fucking understood that shit, because it was hard. It was hard to accept. It was hard to wrap your mind around. It was hard, to live all day, every day, like the two of them were both just _waiting_ for the other shoe to fucking drop. 

Mickey dealt with anxiety and periods of depression, too. He still fucking does. Because like, how the fuck can you not, when you’re stuck going through something like this?

But, Mickey had helped him. With meals, with laundry, with patience—Mickey had helped him. 

And, this time, with an added flare of anger directed _at_ him, what the fuck is Mickey supposed to do?

If Dr. Seaver thinks Mickey needs to be patient, he can do that. If Dr. Seaver thinks he needs to focus on being Ian’s friend, he can do that, too. 

But he _can’t_ pretend those feelings aren’t there. 

He fucking loves Ian, and he can’t just pretend that he fucking doesn’t, after everything.

But, now that Mickey thinks about it, maybe it’s _because_ he loves Ian, that he can do this. 

Because he loves Ian, he can make this work.

* * *

Mickey enters the apartment shortly after his discussion with Dr. Seaver comes to an end. 

It’s significantly nicer than the last one, but it’s still sort of like some weird, warped version of deja vu. It feels like they’ve hit a reset button. Like, if Mickey didn’t know any better, it’d be twelve weeks earlier, and he’d be right back at the beginning. 

The design isn’t all that different from their last apartment, either. It’s an open floor plan, with a sitting area across from the entrance. A black couch with two chairs, and a wooden coffee table, all pointed towards a wall-mounted television.

Beyond the sitting area, divided by a center island, there’s a decently sized kitchen. The appliances are stainless steel, with pristine, marble countertops. 

And, sitting at a chair, with his elbows resting on the counter, Mickey finds Ian. 

Ian is dressed in gray sweats and a white t-shirt, very generic, probably left out for them as a fresh change of clothes. The majority of their belongings were left behind, so they’re not exactly rolling in personal clothing options.

He looks like he’s texting someone, probably Lip or another family member, but he doesn’t acknowledge Mickey’s arrival. Ian either truly didn’t hear him come in, or, probably more likely, he’s ignoring him on purpose.

“Hey,” Mickey says, quietly. 

Mickey is instantly hit with flashbacks of when they first met. 

Ian, awkward and uncomfortable, greeting Mickey for the first time. And Mickey, fucking irritated and annoyed and wanting nothing to do with a roommate, made it very clear that he didn’t care about Ian’s presence.

And it’s sort of ironic; the way the situation feels so, incredibly reversed.

Ian does turn to look at him, though, and Mickey decides that maybe he genuinely didn’t realize he was there. He smiles, barely but enough. 

Mickey smiles back.

“Hi, Mick.”

And, Mickey treads lightly. He really, _really_ doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.

After a moment of thinking, Mickey says, “Fuckin’ weird in here, huh?”

Ian nods, agreeing, but remains silent.

And it’s still making Mickey feel uneasy, the way Ian is so quiet and closed off. 

_Be patient with him._

It’s easier said than done. 

And, fucking honestly, it hurts.

But, Dr. Seaver really hasn’t been wrong about anything since Mickey fucking met him. 

So, maybe that at least counts for something.

It’s fucking hard, though. Because Ian’s silence—his overall attitude—is such a major contrast to the way Mickey thinks he should be feeling. 

And a major, _major_ contrast to the way Mickey is feeling, too.

This should feel good. Fucking all of it should feel good, because they _made_ it. 

This is a good thing. The best fucking thing. 

Of everything Mickey could have hoped for, surviving with Ian, and just fucking _being_ with Ian takes the fucking cake.

They made it, and they’re together. 

Mickey doesn’t want to be dramatic about this, but he _knows_ Ian. And this just isn’t Ian. How can you fucking address something, if the other person isn’t willing to open up about shit?

He decides, maybe against his better judgement, to try again.

“Hey, Ian?” Mickey asks, watching as Ian sets his phone down. He spins around in the chair to look at Mickey. “You wanna talk about anything, man?”

And, yeah. It’s a weighted question, with a very lengthy list of possible answers. 

Is he okay? Does he feel okay? Does he _not_ feel okay? Is he unhappy?

Does he fucking feel like he shouldn’t be here, or whatever the fuck? 

For fuck’s sake, Mickey’s mind is starting to spiral again, but after all of this, after _everything,_ Mickey just wants Ian to be okay.

Mickey _needs_ Ian to be fucking okay.

But when Ian looks up at him, when their eyes meet, Mickey realizes that Ian looks fucking _sad._

Horribly, devastatingly sad.

“Mickey,” Ian begins, solemnly, and Mickey feels the instant that his heart sinks into his stomach.

Ian drops his head into his hands, and Mickey takes a step towards him, freezing when he realizes he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. 

Comfort him? Give him space? 

Ian lifts his head, running a hand back through his hair as he glances up at Mickey. His voice is small when he finally says, “You don’t owe me anything.”

Mickey stares at him, because he doesn’t know _what the fuck_ he’s talking about. 

He bites his tongue, waits for Ian to continue.

“I mean, you’re not obligated. To stay with me.”

And it’s definitely not what Mickey was expecting, but it fucking _hurts,_ the way a punch in the stomach catches you off guard. 

“Ian, I don’t—“ Mickey cuts off, his mouth going dry as he struggles to find the words. “Why the fuck do you think I feel _obligated?”_

Ian frowns, shakes his head. 

He looks frustrated and conflicted, and Mickey feels a lump rising in the back of his throat. 

“It’s like. This—all of this. It was never supposed to be this way, you know?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Be _what_ way? No, I don’t fuckin’ know.”

And Mickey isn’t trying to be a dick. He’s really fucking _not_ , but this is so incredibly far from where Mickey wants to be right now. It feels like a slap in the fucking face, to have Ian here, alive in front of him, voicing these very clear implications. 

Because it’s like Mickey knows, just fucking _knows,_ exactly what Ian is trying to say.

It’s like Ian’s screaming it through a fucking bullhorn, very fucking clearly.

Like he’s screaming, _“I don’t want to be with you anymore.”_

“We were never supposed to make it out of there,” Ian continues. “Twelve weeks was twelve weeks,” Ian’s voice breaks, but he struggles to catch himself. “All of this—it was always gonna have an expiration date.”

Mickey feels like he can’t breathe.

Really and fucking truly can’t breathe. 

It fucking stings, like it’s cutting deep beneath Mickey’s skin. What’s fucking worse is that Ian isn't _wrong,_ because that _was_ the understanding. 

But it turned into something more. Something so much fucking more, that Mickey thought could be forever, if they could just make it the fuck out alive— _and they fucking did._

And _fuck,_ Mickey already had to deal with losing Ian once. He doesn’t want to lose him again, now. It feels like the walls are closing in, and Mickey is stuck. 

He’s fucking stuck, and he wants to cry. He wants to fall to his knees and beg Ian to stay. 

But, he can’t. He can’t do that.

Mickey is fucking better than that.

Because that’s not what Ian needs.

_Be patient with him._

_Jesus,_ Mickey fucking wants to be. He wants to be patient, but this isn’t what Mickey was fucking expecting. Mickey doesn’t want him to leave. 

_Mickey doesn’t want to let him go._

“So, that’s it, huh?” Mickey almost whispers it, because he can barely find his voice.

It’s not meant to be a guilt trip. But Mickey has a fucking limit, too.

“I don’t know,” Ian says back. He looks down at his feet. “Maybe.”

_Be patient with him._

Being patient with him wasn’t supposed to lead to them fucking breaking up. 

Mickey didn’t agree to that shit. He didn’t fucking agree to that shit, at all.

It dawns on Mickey, suddenly, that they aren’t even technically _together._

This can’t even be considered a fucking break up, because they never put a fucking label on anything. It never seemed like they fucking had to.

“Don’t fool yourself into thinking that your life begins and ends with me,” Ian continues. “You can easily tell Dr. Seaver that you don’t want to live with me anymore. Plenty of room here.”

And it’s fucking frustrating, so fucking frustrating, because Mickey _doesn’t want that._

“Maybe we were always meant to get the fuck outta there,” Mickey tries. “Together, you know?”

And he means it. More than anything, he fucking means it.

 _"You_ were meant to,” Ian says, quietly. “Not me.”

Ian’s response, so flippant and self-critical, is fucking alarming. 

Because that shit isn’t true. It’s not fucking true. 

It’s what they suspected, sort of—Ian feeling like he was given a second chance at a life that he was never meant to have. 

But, holy fuck, it’s just _not fucking true._

“I only lived because of you. Being your roommate, being exposed to you. So—why me? People are dying fucking everywhere, but me, for no reason except being _lucky_ , got better because of you. It feels like I cheated death. And there are so many fucking people that deserved this more than I did.”

He’s wrong. He’s fucking wrong, but Mickey can’t make him _see_ that.

“Who gives a shit about any of that? This ain’t your fault, Ian. Fuckin’ none of it. You didn’t ask for any of this. Nobody did, but—you still deserve to fuckin’ be here.”

“Don’t know,” Ian says. “But you don’t have to humor me. It made more sense to settle for someone like me when I was your only choice.”

Mickey takes a step forward at that, because he’s getting _mad._

“Shut the fuck up—” Mickey snaps, “—about what you _think_ you know about how I feel.”

“Come on,” Ian says, almost taunting. He stands up from the chair, holds up his hands. “At least admit that shit to yourself.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey retorts. “I wasn’t settling for _shit.”_

And, fucking hell, Mickey almost forgot how fucking stubborn Ian could be. 

“You don’t know me, Mickey. Didn’t have enough time to really know me,” Ian says. He sounds angry, but Mickey doesn’t miss the crack in his voice, like he’s struggling to keep up a front. “And once you do, once you _really_ do, you’re not gonna like what you find.”

At this point, Ian is throwing himself a full blown pity party. He’s closed off, and he’s not _listening_. 

Instead, he’s more focused on pushing Mickey away, like they’re already fucking done. 

“Can you _stop?”_ Mickey pleads. “Jesus Christ, Ian. Give yourself a fuckin’ break.”

Ian sniffs. “I think you feel sorry for me. And I just. Need some time.”

And, okay. Fucking fine. Whatever. 

All they fucking _have_ is time. 

That fucking hourglass; once trickling down at a steady pace, now indefinitely suspended. 

Or maybe, for the two of them, it’s fucking smashed to pieces on the floor. 

“You don’t—you don’t have to fuckin’ do this, you know.” Mickey says. His voice wavers. “You know how I feel about you. You’ve known the entire time. _You know."_

How many ways can Mickey fucking say it? 

How many ways can make it clear?

Mickey fucking loves him, and _he_ doesn’t need time to decide whether or not he wants to be with him. He already fucking knows. 

And all the while it was happening, as Mickey felt himself falling, he thought so often about wanting more. He thought constantly about how fucking _unfair_ it was that, one day, it would all just come to a stop. How unfair it was that they couldn’t have a future together. How unfair it was that Mickey, for the first time in his life, had fallen in love, only to have it taken away from him. 

But he _never_ expected this. He never thought about this. He never considered that, if they managed to make it the fuck out of there, that their futures might not include each other.

Mickey doesn’t want to force Ian to stay. Mickey doesn’t want to guilt Ian into staying. 

It fucking kills him, but he needs to man the fuck up, because he has no fucking choice.

So, if Ian needs to leave, Mickey needs to let him go. If Ian needs space, if Ian needs to figure out what the fuck he needs or wants or _whatever,_ Mickey will give him that.

“I don’t want you to hate me,” Ian says suddenly, his voice quiet. “But you can’t—you can’t base your feelings for me off of these last few months.”

“I love you,” Mickey says, and it comes out quick, desperate. 

He can’t help it.

Ian walks past Mickey, stops at the door. He turns back to him, meeting his eyes once more. 

Tears are welling up in Ian’s eyes, and Mickey just wishes—fucking _wishes_ —that Ian could fucking understand.

“Mickey, just. Please, think about it. Take time away from me, and think about it.”

And then, Ian turns, exiting the apartment and shutting the door behind him. 

It feels like Mickey’s being slapped in the face by another flashback; this time of Ian being wheeled out of their last apartment, too sick and too weak to walk. Except, in a painful myriad of ironies, Ian had actually wanted Mickey to come with him.

And, this time, Ian wants nothing more than to keep them apart. 

* * *

Staring out the window, with nothing but fields for miles, spanning out in every direction, Mickey feels the horrible, numbing sensation of emptiness. 

It’s a different sort of feeling; not at all the same as when Ian was taken away.

It’s that ugly, painful feeling of losing someone. 

But not to illness, and not to death. 

This is that exclusive, destructive kind of pain that comes only from _heartbreak._

The feeling of being left behind. 

The feeling of Ian _choosing_ to leave him behind.

It’s the persistent disappointment within Mickey’s mind, flooding him with wave after wave of shit that should have been done _differently._

Because, _maybe_ if shit had been done differently, Mickey wouldn’t fucking be alone, now.

No matter how fucking much Mickey tells himself that he didn’t do anything wrong, he still fucking _feels_ like he did. 

Like Mickey didn’t fucking love Ian enough, or didn’t fucking show his love enough. 

Like Mickey wasn’t fucking good enough for Ian, and just couldn’t be what he needed, in the end.

And, maybe the thoughts are irrational, but that doesn’t make them any less fucking _painful._

Because, Mickey is pretty fucking certain that the only kind of pain remotely close to watching a loved one die, is watching a loved one walk away. 

The door opens suddenly, and Mickey turns around way too fast, like he’s fucking pathetically hopeful to find Ian standing there. 

Instead, he finds his sister and his cousin. 

His face falls.

“Sheesh, don’t look _too_ happy to see us,” Sandy says, raising an eyebrow. 

She drops two bags beside her feet, and they look like the ones that Ian and Mickey had been using at the old apartment.

“They found bags of yours and Ian’s shit that you left behind,” Sandy confirms.

At the very least, it’ll be nice to have some of his own fucking clothes. 

“What’s with the brooding, moody, stare?” Mandy adds with a half-smile. There’s a gentleness to her expression that Mickey never really saw, back when they were growing up.

And, to be fair, it _is_ comforting to see the two of them, in a way that Mickey didn’t really expect.

Mandy looks the way she did when Mickey last saw her, mostly. Her hair is dark, almost black, falling down to the middle of her back as she flips it behind her shoulders. 

She meets Mickey in the center of the room and pulls him in for a hug, a little more affectionate than what had ever been typical of their exchanges.

“Glad you’re okay,” Mandy says. She pulls back, punches him hard in the arm, and says, “You gonna tell us what the fuck’s up with Ian?”

Mickey glares at them, folding his arms over his chest. “Don’t wanna fuckin’ talk about Ian.”

Sandy falls back on the couch a few feet away from where Mickey and Mandy are standing, kicking her feet up on the coffee table. She rolls her eyes, looking up at him.

“You know, that sounds like pure fucking bullshit, right?”

And, Mandy nods. Because that’s what they do, the fucking two of them. They gang up on Mickey and drive him fucking crazy, until they fucking trick him into _talking._

Even though they weren’t always close growing up, the dynamic still feels familiar.

“He was Prince Fucking Charming when we talked to him over FaceTime,” Mandy says.

“Exactly,” Sandy agrees. “So, what was his problem, when I met him earlier today?”

“Lotta things,” Mickey grumbles. “Whole fuckin’ laundry list of shit I can’t change. That answer good enough for you, or what?”

They share a look, like they’re conspiring something, and Mickey fucking _hates that._

“Knock it off with that shit,” Mickey groans. “None of that _talkin’ with your fuckin’ eyes_ bullshit.”

“Did you break up?” Mandy asks, ignoring him. 

Mickey winces, because he _hates_ hearing those fucking words spoken out loud.

“No, we didn’t fuckin’ break—” Mickey pauses, frowning. " _Shut up._ Never fuckin’ put a label on shit, so. Can’t really break up when you’re not together, right?”

Sandy snorts. “You don’t actually believe that, do you? After the shit you told us about him, you expect either of us to think you weren’t actually together?”

“Why do you need a label on the way you feel about somebody?” Mandy adds. 

And, _Jesus fucking Christ,_ Mickey can’t stand either of them. 

“I don’t _know,”_ Mickey says. “Go ask _him_ this shit, okay?”

“Almost did,” Mandy admits. She sits down on one of the chairs on the opposite side of the coffee table. “He’s outside behind the building, just kind of laying in the grass.”

Mickey sighs. He glances between both of them.

“I meant everything I said, when I told you about him. But this shit ain’t what I expected. It feels like he’s pissed at me, and how the fuck am I supposed to fix that?”

“So, all of this—“ Sandy begins, gesturing around in a circular motion, “—Ian getting better, it’s because of you?”

Mickey sighs. “I don’t know. We think, yeah. Probably.”

“Told you,” Mandy says, kicking at Sandy’s foot with her sneaker. “Next time someone tells you sex doesn’t save lives, tell them about this.”

“Can you please not—“ Mickey begins, holding his hands up. “Jesus Christ. First of all, nobody ever _says that._ Second of all, shut the fuck up.”

Mickey forgot how annoying Mandy could be. No wonder he’s never been big on family reunions.

But, no, it’s not a fucking secret, at this point. 

Ian is the only one who spontaneously improved, as far as they’re aware. It’s probably not a _sex_ thing, as much as a _close contact in general_ kind of thing. But, Mandy isn’t wrong, either.

If the doctors used samples from Sandy and Mandy on themselves and found that they _helped,_ while Ian had already been improving on his own, it doesn’t take a fucking scientist to put that shit together. 

No matter how crazy it sounds.

“All that shit about ‘ _cheating death’_ when we were outside—he thinks _he_ cheated death?” Sandy asks.

“Guess so,” Mickey grumbles. 

Mandy looks back up at Mickey, shrugging. “So, fucking make him feel like he belongs here. He needs to know he’s supposed to be here, no matter how the fuck he managed to live.”

Mickey stares at her, and although his first instinct is to argue, she sort of has a point.

And, yeah, fine. 

Mickey can fucking do that, as long as Ian is willing to listen.

* * *

Mickey doesn’t immediately track Ian down after his discussion with Sandy and Mandy. He’s still trying to be patient, still trying to give Ian time.

It’s a few hours later, when Mickey finally finds Ian sitting on a bench behind the complex. Dusk is creeping over the sky, as the moon becomes more and more prominent. 

Mickey approaches the bench, waits until Ian offers him a nod, like he’s encouraging Mickey to sit with him. 

He sits down beside Ian, waits a beat, and then says, “You come here often?”

“Can’t say I do,” Ian replies with a reserved smile. He looks up at the sky, closes his eyes for a moment to breathe in the fresh air.

He looks beautiful. In a stomach-twisting, horribly unfair way, he just looks so fucking beautiful.

They both remain quiet, after that. A few minutes of silence pass by, with only the occasional sound of crickets chirping around them. 

Mickey offers, “It’s nice. Bein’ outside.”

“I used to like sitting outside at night,” Ian says, unexpectedly. “It was one of my favorite things to do. Always helped clear my head.”

Mickey nods. “Been a while. Missed bein’ able to just breathe fresh fuckin’ air. Shit makes you realize how much we took for granted.”

“It’s nice,” Ian agrees. “Kinda got sick of feeling like a prisoner.”

“Me too,” Mickey says. Then, decides to try something. “Plus, I gotta be honest—my roommate was a piece of fuckin’ work.”

Ian grins, although Mickey can tell he’s trying to fight it. Ian glances at him, and for a second, Mickey almost expects something—a remark, maybe, at the very least. 

But, when nothing comes, Mickey decides to continue.

“I mean—I’m talkin’ major, _major_ fuckin’ douchebag. Real sarcastic motherfucker, always in my business. Stubborn as fuck, could hold a grudge like you wouldn't _believe,”_ Mickey catches Ian smiling wider, now. “He _did_ make a damn good cup of coffee, though.”

“Couldn’t have been all bad, then,” Ian says quietly. Then, suddenly, “This roommate of yours—he good at anything else?”

Mickey raises his eyebrows, shrugs.

“A few things, I guess.”

Ian hums, but it’s not long before silence is falling between them again. 

Mickey stands up, and Ian looks at him.

“Listen, man. I can give you space. But, I need you to get this through your head—it ain’t your job to tell me what I fuckin’ want, okay?”

Ian sighs, nodding his head slowly.

Mickey continues. “Don’t trick yourself into thinkin’ I don’t want to be with you. I do. So, ball’s in your court, man.”

He’s still not really giving Mickey much of _anything_ , but Mickey is doing his absolute fucking best to be patient. 

So, Mickey keeps fucking rambling. 

“And, like. We can be friends, if you just want to be friends, or whatever.”

Ian is still looking up at him, but he says nothing.

There’s really nothing else that Mickey can fucking say, right now. 

But, if nothing else, it’s at least a start. 

“Gonna go,” Mickey adds. “Not sure if you found another place to sleep, or whatever. But—door’s open, you know.”

And, as Mickey turns to go back inside, it fucking hurts. It hurts to walk away from him. It hurts because he can’t stop _overthinking_. It hurts because, whether Ian blames himself or not, Mickey is terrified that Ian has had some kind of poorly timed wake up call. 

It’s almost as if, maybe, underneath all of this, Ian doesn’t want to be with Mickey, period. 

Maybe, now that things are different, Mickey just isn’t what Ian thought he was.

It’s so fucking brutal to think about.

Like, here’s a second chance with the man you fell in love with. A second chance with the man you thought _really_ loved you, too. You lived through hell and back, together, but—maybe, in the end, that man doesn’t actually want to be with you.

Which is the same shit Mickey worried about _weeks ago._

The shit that Ian reassured him about, when he told Mickey that _he fucking loved him._

Maybe Ian does. Or, maybe Ian doesn’t. 

It fucking hurts, but Mickey just wants Ian to be happy. And Mickey can’t change the way Ian thinks, or the way Ian feels. 

He can’t change any of it.

So, Mickey needs to call it a night. 

Give Ian his space, give Ian his time. 

He needs to stop fucking bothering him. 

But, as Mickey pulls open the door, Ian is suddenly right there, putting a hand over Mickey’s to push it closed. 

Mickey turns to face Ian just as Ian moves in to bring their lips together, gently. His hands move to rest on either side of Mickey’s neck, and Mickey can practically feel the anxious knots in his stomach unraveling, changing to something light and fluttery.

It feels like he’s fucking dreaming.

“I love you,” Ian whispers, forehead pressed against Mickey’s. “I want to be with you. I want to fucking be with you, for the rest of my life. But I don’t know what the fuck I’m even doing here _,_ and I just—“

 _“Stop,”_ Mickey says, brushing his thumb across Ian’s cheek, pressing another soft kiss to his lips. “Let’s just. Figure it out. This shit ain’t got a rule book, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

“Why are you so sure about me?” Ian asks, and the earnest look in his eyes tugs hard on Mickey’s heart. “There’s shit you don’t know. Shit I’m not expecting you to deal with.”

“You think I don’t got shit? We all got shit, Ian,” Mickey says. He smiles, brushing a fallen piece of Ian’s hair back behind his ear. “Whatcha wanna do, man? Start over? Tell me all that shit about yourself, right here, right now?”

Ian exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. 

He’s smiling, looking down between them like he’s afraid to keep looking Mickey in the eyes.

“Ian, look at me.”

He doesn’t.

Mickey reaches up to set a very gentle hand beneath Ian’s chin, lifting his face back up.

 _“Look_ at me,” Mickey insists. 

Ian meets his eyes again, and it’s fucking wild, the way Mickey instantly feels so much of _everything._

God, he fucking loves him. And he knows, just fucking knows, that Ian loves him, too.

“How does starting over even work?” Ian asks, moving his hands to slide them slowly down Mickey’s back. “You like—want me to fucking introduce myself, or what? You didn’t even want that back when you _first_ met me.”

Mickey laughs, shoves lightly at Ian’s chest. 

“Fuck off,” Mickey says. “I mean. If you wanna take shit slow, or whatever. If you wanna do the friend bullshit, we can do that, okay?”

“If I wanna do the _‘friend bullshit?’”_ Ian repeats, mocking, pulls back to form air quotes with his fingers around the words. 

“Fuck you, _yeah._ The fuckin’ friend thing.”

Ian nods, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth. 

“Yeah, Mick. Let’s do the fucking friend thing.”

* * *

As the moon shines brighter, and the night sky becomes filled with stars, Mickey finds himself lying on the grass with Ian beside him. 

Ian’s arms are stretched out above him, hands folded behind his head. 

They’ve been talking for a while. Just talking.

Ian tells Mickey that he texted Lip once they got situated, mostly to let him know that he’s okay.

It sounds like Lip had more questions than Ian had answers for, but that’s not really any fucking surprise. As far as being on a quest for answers, Lip can join the fucking club. 

He tells Mickey that Lip told him about their phone call; the one right after Ian got taken away.

“Lip appreciated that you answered my phone,” Ian says. “Probably wasn’t a fun conversation to have.”

“It wasn’t,” Mickey admits. “Was—fuckin’ awful. Tellin’ your brother that you were sick. That you might already be dead.”

“You told him you loved me,” Ian says, almost pensively.

Mickey smiles. “I—yeah. I do love you.”

He thinks Ian might be on the verge of tears, the way he swallows a little too hard. Mickey glances over at him, reaches out to touch his arm.

 _“You_ told him that I was your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Mickey says, kind of playful, and Ian scrunches up his face like he’s embarrassed.

And it’s so, _so_ fucking endearing.

“Can’t believe he told you that shit,” Ian says. “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable. Just—it was easier to explain.”

It _never_ made Mickey uncomfortable. 

Not even for one single fucking second. 

And, fuck, he wants so badly to grab Ian and tell him how much he _wants that_. 

He can’t, though. Not right now.

They’re obviously not _just_ _friends._ They’re towing a line somewhere between working on a friendship, trying to learn about each other, while still knowing how strongly they both feel. 

But it’s fucking hard; the way Mickey isn’t sure what is or isn't okay. The way Mickey has these feelings that he’s trying so hard not to act on.

“Didn’t bother me,” Mickey reassures him, decides to be a little bold when he says, “Maybe we can have that, someday.”

Ian looks over at him, and their eyes meet again. 

It feels like a sense of understanding passes between them, and then, Ian nods. He smiles, and he looks relaxed in a way that makes Mickey feel like everything is going to be okay.

And then, because Mickey feels like he has to fucking say it, he adds, “You’re always gonna belong here, you know.”

Ian looks back at him, maybe blinks away a tear. 

Quietly, he says, “Hope so.”

* * *

Another few hours pass by, and Mickey realizes they must have dozed off. There’s just something so fucking peaceful about being outside, and so comforting about spending these safe, quiet moments with Ian. 

And, honestly, they’re both fucking exhausted. 

Mickey thinks they might be tired for the rest of their lives, after the amount of shit they’ve dealt with recently.

Ian looks lost in thought again. He’s sitting up now, his back leaning against the bench.

“Did you know Dr. Seaver was a psychiatrist, before all of this shit?” Ian asks suddenly, busying himself with picking grass out of the ground.

Mickey chuckles. “Yeah, man. Crazy, right? Makes sense, I guess—smart motherfucker. Tried to fuckin’ pull some shrink shit with me earlier, too.”

Ian nods, fidgets a little bit. “He was my doctor.”

Mickey stares at him, waiting for some kind of clarification. Because— _yeah—_ he’s been everyone’s fucking doctor.

“My psychiatrist, I mean,” Ian adds. “Back before all this shit started happening.”

And suddenly, there’s an incredibly _astounding_ combination of curiosity, confusion, and understanding—all hitting Mickey at once.

“I hope that’s not a weird thing to admit,” Ian says, almost like he’s recoiling, regretting the fact that he said it at all.

That’s the absolute _last_ thing that Mickey wants Ian to think, right now.

“No, no. It’s not weird,” Mickey says, quickly. “But—shit, Ian. That’s like, a wild fuckin’ coincidence.”

And it _is._

It really, really fucking is. It’s sort of shocking, but the more Mickey thinks about it, the more it actually makes sense.

Dr. Seaver seemed to take a special interest in Ian the moment he became sick. He encouraged Mickey to cut him some slack, and put a whole lot of weight on the hope that Mickey would take care of him.

And, from the beginning, he’s always been so damn clued in to _exactly_ what Ian needed.

As the wheels continue to turn in Mickey’s head, he adds, “Kinda seems like a conflict of interest, don’t it?”

Ian shrugs. “What else was he gonna do? Not treat me? I don’t think he ever told anyone. Plus, I didn’t even realize it was him until I heard his name. And when he finally took all of that protective shit off.”

It makes sense that Ian wouldn’t have automatically recognized him. It was nearly impossible to see clearly into those damn space suits.

“He cares about you a lot,” Mickey says. “I didn’t fuckin’ get it. Once you got sick, he went from robotic doctor to actual fuckin’ _human_ with feelings.”

“I’ve known him for a while,” Ian explains. “He did therapy shit with me before he became a psychiatrist—and then, he just kinda took me on with everything. Since I was seventeen.”

Mickey nods, just sort of taking it all in. 

This is good. If this is what it means to do _friend bullshit_ , Mickey thinks they’re on the right track. 

“So. Whatcha seein’ him for?” Mickey asks. “And—you don’t gotta talk about it, if you don’t want to.”

Ian pauses, like maybe he’s thinking about whether or not he wants to answer. He sighs, then after a moment, says, “Bipolar.”

He shrugs after he says it, like he’s brushing it off as something that doesn’t matter to him. He’s frowning, though, and Mickey can tell it’s a difficult topic for him to discuss.

“Dr. Seaver started doing therapy with me when I was a teenager. For the last few years, he’s been prescribing my meds and shit, too.” 

Bipolar, huh. 

Mickey doesn’t really know a lot about what that means, and he’s not about to pretend he does, either. But, if he’s certain about anything, it’s that he fucking doesn’t care. Ian might as well have said, _“I have fucking allergies,”_ and Mickey thinks he would have the same reaction. 

“Probably should have told you,” Ian adds. “It’s just—a lot, sometimes. A lot to deal with. For me, and for people in my life. I don’t go around broadcasting it.”

And, this is what Ian meant, Mickey is pretty damn sure. All that shit about Mickey _not liking what he’s going to find_ , once he gets to know Ian more. He was talking about this. 

“Don’t think it’s really anyone’s fuckin’ business, right? M’not mad you didn’t tell me,” Mickey says. “But, I don’t give a shit about any of that, y’know.”

“You say that,” Ian says. “It’s different when you’re dealing with it. All this shit lately has been a lot for me to handle, but—“ 

Ian pauses; shakes his head like he’s already said more than he thinks Mickey wants to hear.

Mickey urges him to continue. “But what?"

“It’s just. This kind of shit didn’t matter, when we first got together. This is the shit that ended with my life, the shit that should have gotten buried with me, you know? I never thought it would come up again. And, now suddenly it’s part of me, all over again.”

“Nothin’ to be ashamed of,” Mickey says. “And—that shit don’t define you, either.”

“Feels like it does.” 

Mickey rips out a few blades of grass, leaning over to throw them at Ian’s chest.

Ian pulls a face, brushing the grass off and glaring at Mickey.

“You gotta stop fuckin’ harpin’ on yourself,” Mickey says. “You know whatever we’re doing here, that shit don’t change anything for me.”

Ian looks at him kind of funny, like maybe this isn’t the response he’s used to getting. 

But then, he smiles. 

And Mickey smiles back.

* * *

When Mickey gets into bed later that night, alone, with Ian falling asleep in a separate bedroom, he somehow feels _hopeful._

And, maybe it’s weird, in a sort of ass backwards kind of way. Like, how the fuck could this possibly be a good thing, when Mickey knows that Ian _should be_ sleeping beside him?

It is a good thing, though.

Because, earlier today, Ian would barely fucking look at him. Earlier today, Ian was ready to push Mickey the fuck out of his life forever. Earlier today, Ian felt lost and broken, like he didn’t belong here. 

Like he didn’t belong anywhere.

But, Mickey did his best to be patient. 

Mickey did his best to focus on being Ian’s friend.

And, sure. Looking ahead, they have a long way to go. They have a long way to go, and it’s going to be far from fucking perfect. 

There are still so many unanswered questions; maybe questions that they won’t ever get a fucking answer for, period.

But the most important thing to Mickey, in a world full of shit that doesn’t make sense, is the fact that Ian knows _how Mickey feels._ Because Ian needs to fucking know. And it’s the only thing, the only fucking thing, that Mickey has ever been able to make sense of.

The fact that Mickey loves Ian is the _only fucking thing_ that Mickey has ever been certain of, maybe in his entire fucking life.

And so, Ian needs to know that Mickey loves him. Ian needs to know that, no matter what the fuck skeletons he has in his closet, Mickey doesn’t fucking care about that shit. 

Mickey still fucking loves him, no matter how Ian feels about himself. 

And maybe, most importantly, Ian needs to know that he belongs here. 

Right here, with Mickey, fucking forever. 

Ian belongs _here._

So, no. It doesn’t necessarily make it any easier for Mickey to fall asleep without Ian next to him. 

But, Mickey can continue being patient. And maybe, when Ian is finally ready, that empty space beside Mickey will finally be full, again. 

Just like that piece of his heart that feels like it’s _missing,_ Mickey hopes that, eventually, Ian will be there to make him feel whole, again.

* * *

Sometimes, in the same way that not every question has an answer, life has a funny way of working itself out. 

Because, Mickey wakes up late on Monday morning, it’s with the immediate sensation that something, somehow, is different _._

He stretches his legs, nestles down further into his pillow, and it takes only a split second longer before Mickey realizes—he isn’t alone. 

Pressing against his back, with an arm draped over Mickey’s belly, lies a very warm and sleepy Ian Gallagher. 

And, when Mickey realizes, it feels like his heart is coming to a complete and total fucking stop.

There are no words in any language to accurately describe the feeling that engulfs Mickey’s body, as he lets the warmth of Ian’s touch wash over him. He has no _idea_ when Ian crawled into bed with him, only that it must have been at some point during the night, but it’s the best thing—the absolute _best_ fucking thing—that Mickey could have ever woken up to. 

And honestly, Mickey feels like he could fucking cry. 

He snuggles back against Ian’s chest, reaches up to gently grab at his forearm where it’s resting against his tummy. It must be in the same moment that Ian wakes up, pressing his face down softly into Mickey’s neck.

Ian pulls him in further, wrapping both arms around Mickey’s waist, hugging him tightly from behind. He keeps his face buried in the space between Mickey’s neck and shoulder, and Mickey’s heart feels like it’s about to snap in half as hot tears begin to fall against his skin. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian murmurs, his voice quiet and small. “So fucking sorry.”

Mickey is fucking scrambling, then, as he turns around in Ian’s arms. He sets his hands on both sides of Ian’s face, using his thumbs to brush away Ian’s tears as they continue to fall.

When Mickey leans in to kiss Ian’s forehead, he feels him _shaking_ , just this horrible, full-body trembling. It’s fucking heartbreaking, because Mickey just wants Ian to be _okay_ and this is bringing back horrible, terrible fucking memories. 

Memories of Ian getting sick, memories of Ian _dying_. 

Memories of what their last moments were like, before Ian got taken away.

It’s been hard. It’s all been _so fucking hard_.

Mickey knows this isn’t easy. 

None of it has _ever_ been easy. 

Mickey may have had to deal with Ian’s illness and the crippling idea of losing him, but Ian is the one that actually fucking got sick. 

It was Ian on the brink of death, it was Ian’s body fighting to recover, it was Ian dealing with the aftermath; feeling like he survived in a world where he didn’t belong.

But, he fucking does

More than anything, _he belongs_. 

He belongs here. He belongs with Mickey. 

Nothing else fucking matters, because that’s the _only_ thing that matters. 

Ian and Mickey together, is the only thing that fucking matters.

Right here, right now, Mickey has Ian and Ian has Mickey, and that’s exactly how it should be. 

That’s exactly how it fucking needs to be. 

And so, whatever Ian needs, Mickey can fucking do it.

If Ian needs to take things slow, if Ian wants to focus on a friendship, if Ian needs space.

Whatever Ian needs, whatever makes Ian comfortable, Mickey can fucking do it. 

But Mickey _can’t_ stop loving him. 

Mickey can’t stop wanting him. 

Mickey can’t pretend that, after everything, Ian isn’t his entire fucking world. 

“You don’t gotta be sorry,” Mickey replies, finally, closing his eyes and he buries his face into Ian’s hair. “Just need you to be okay.”

“I am,” Ian says, pulling Mickey closer. “Promise.”

“I fuckin’ love you,” Mickey whispers. “So much.”

“Love you, too,” Ian says. 

And, just like that, with Ian filling the empty space in Mickey’s bed, and the missing piece in Mickey’s heart, Mickey starts to feel _whole_ again.

* * *

Mickey thinks they must have fallen asleep, again, somewhere between declarations of love, and Ian pressing soft kisses into Mickey’s cheek. 

Mickey sleeps so much _better_ when Ian is snuggled up beside him. He realizes that it’s been _weeks_ since they last slept in a bed together, cozy and comfortable, wrapped up in each other. 

Fucking hell, Mickey missed it. 

They wake up from a nap later in the afternoon, when Mickey finds his fingers intertwined with Ian’s. Ian is looking at him, his features soft and serene, and Mickey feels his heart beating like a fucking bass drum in his chest.

Ian squeezes Mickey’s hand, smiling at him. 

“Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed,” Ian says after a moment.

And, it’s sort of weird. 

He says it as if they’re casually sharing a bed, like they haven’t been snuggling into each other and holding each other close since sometime last night. 

But, rather than making something out of nothing, Mickey says, “Sure thing, man.”

Ian just sort of keeps looking at him, the way he does when he’s thinking too much. 

Like maybe, he’s about to say something.

And then, he does.

“I know we’re starting over and shit. Doing the whole _friends_ thing. But, it kinda got me thinking.”

Mickey turns to look at him.

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Mickey teases, poking him in the arm. 

“What if I offered you a proposition, of sorts?” Ian asks.

Mickey raises an eyebrow. “What kind of proposition?”

“Well,” Ian begins, tilting his head from side to side, like he’s considering something. “Maybe—some kind of twenty-four hour agreement?”

Oh. _Oh._ Suddenly, it dawns on Mickey what Ian is trying to do. 

This is _Ian._ Being his shithead self, pushing Mickey’s buttons, fishing for a very kind of specific reaction. Teasing, playful. _His Ian._

“Like, you know. Twenty-four hours, no strings attached,” Ian continues. Mickey realizes that there’s an unmistakably flirty edge to his voice. 

Mickey clicks his tongue, shrugs his shoulders. 

He’s trying so hard to keep a stoic expression.

“I don’t know, man. That shit never really works, does it?”

Clearly. Fucking clearly, that shit never works.

And Mickey is so, so fucking thankful that it doesn’t.

“You’re probably right,” Ian agrees. Waits a beat, then says, “But, really, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like we’re gonna _fall in love_ or something."

Mickey is smiling now, and he can’t fucking help it. His face is heating up until Ian’s gaze, and when he turns to meet Ian’s eyes, he feels it as the warmth from his cheeks begins to flare out through the rest of his body.

Because Ian looks at Mickey like he’s everything. He looks at Mickey like he’s fucking _everything,_ and then, with absolutely no warning, Ian leans forward to close the distance between them.

He kisses Mickey on the mouth, puts _so fucking much_ into it, like Mickey is Ian’s entire fucking lifeline. Love, trust, hope. Promise, passion, _everything._

It’s soft and sweet and it feels like _home_ , as Ian cups the side of Mickey’s face. As Mickey slides his hands into Ian’s hair. As Ian shuffles closer, climbs on top of Mickey until he’s settling down against his body. As their kisses shift from soft and sweet, to parted lips and eager tongues. 

“Think I might,” Mickey mumbles, smiling as Ian kisses around his words. 

Another kiss, another smile. “Might what?” Ian asks.

And Mickey tilts his head, kissing him harder. “Might fall in love,” Mickey clarifies.

Ian makes a noise into Mickey’s mouth, and he’s getting _into it_ ; the way he does when he loses himself in Mickey, when they lose themselves in each other.

“Wanna know a secret?” Ian asks, pulling away to kiss a line down Mickey’s neck. He kisses Mickey’s shoulder, and adds, “I already fucking did.”

God, it’s so fucking ridiculous, the way Mickey feels a _lump_ rising in his throat. But it’s _so much._

It’s so fucking much, because Ian has spent so much time feeling conflicted and scared and doubting _everything_ about himself _,_ and Mickey wasn’t sure that he’d ever be able to make it better.

And so, Mickey focused on giving Ian the two things he needed most—patience and friendship. 

Because, for the rest of their fucking lives, Mickey wants to be able to give Ian _everything._

Absolutely fucking everything.

And he knows, fucking _knows,_ that Ian wants that too. He knows that Ian wants to do the same for him, forever. And he knows that he’s fucking going to. 

Mickey smiles, eyes closed as he lets his head fall back, hands sliding down Ian’s back to grab onto the hem of his shirt. 

It feels like home, as they undress each other under the beat of a familiar rhythm, coming alive beneath each other's fingertips, until there’s nothing but bare skin between them. 

It’s _everything._ Kissing, touching, loving. Caught under Ian’s spell; the one that tangles around Mickey’s heart, the one that spills into Mickey’s broken parts and makes him _whole._

The same spell that makes Mickey _want_. The spell that makes him want every part of Ian’s body, and every piece of Ian’s heart. The spell that makes Mickey want to protect him and love him.

And fuck, it’s overwhelming, how fucking much he wants Ian to _have him._ He wants Ian to have all of him, and it’s fucking surreal to know that Ian wants that too. 

“ _Mickey_ ,” Ian whispers, mouthing gently at Mickey’s jawline. “Let me make some fuckin’ love to you.”

And Mickey fucking laughs, turns his head away from Ian and laughs as Ian chases his lips. Ian smiles as he catches the corner of Mickey’s mouth.

“Who the fuck says that shit?” Mickey teases, and blushes. Because he's thought it, of fucking course he’s thought it—he’s just never fucking said it out loud. “Just call it _fucking_ , you sappy motherfucker.”

Ian’s smile widens. “Are you embarrassed?”

“No— _shut up,”_ Mickey groans, biting down on his bottom lip as Ian slides a hand down each side of Mickey’s torso.

“It’s not the same thing,” Ian insists. “I’ll prove it.”

“Can’t prove—” Mickey tries to argue, voice getting muffled as Ian cuts him off with his mouth.

God, Ian is kissing with his whole fucking body, as his hips rock down against him. The pressure is making Mickey hard—and _fuck,_ Mickey wants Ian to make him come apart. So, maybe Ian wants to _make love_ but Mickey kind of wants to _fuck,_ and he’s fairly fucking hopeful that they can meet somewhere in the middle.

And, to be fair, Mickey could absolutely argue that this is the way Ian kisses when he fucks, with his tongue in Mickey’s mouth, lips wet, latching together and pulling apart. 

“Feels like you wanna fuck,” Mickey teases, breathless as Ian breaks away from his lips to sit up on his knees.

And Ian just sort of looks at him. Mickey is hard and he wants so fucking much and Ian is just fucking looking at him. 

But then, Ian leans back down, starts to kiss his way down Mickey’s body. Kissing, touching, _loving._ His kisses are soft, his hands are gentle, eyes closed and brow furrowed like he’s so fucking determined to do this right. 

And it’s true, Mickey can admit, the way Ian’s movements feel like love; gentle and careful and sensual. He’s doing this slowly, taking his time, giving Mickey something that nobody else could ever fucking give him.

It’s in the brush of their skin, the touch of Ian’s lips. It’s in the way Ian takes the head of Mickey’s cock into his mouth, licks and sucks and closes his lips around him. The way he lifts Mickey’s hips to slide him up, forward, until Ian’s mouth is beneath him, until Ian drags his tongue along the crease of Mickey’s ass. Until he pushes _inside_ —wet and warm, slow licks back and forth, in and out. 

It’s fucking good, _so fucking good_ , Ian’s tongue slowly working Mickey into a high, joined by an index finger, and then a middle finger, and _then_ a ring finger, as Mickey starts to fucking squirm. It‘s so fucking good _—better_ —when Ian wraps his free hand around Mickey’s cock, fisting at the same pace, pleasure building and building and _building._

And it’s fucking _infuriating_ when Ian stops suddenly, pushes Mickey gently off his face, releases his cock. It’s goddamn fucking infuriating because Mickey was _close_ and it’s un-fucking-fair, to wind Mickey up and leave him stuck at the fucking top.

“Was fuckin’ close,” Mickey says, although it comes out like some kind of pathetic whine.

Ian smiles, rolling Mickey onto his side, maneuvering behind him until he’s holding onto his shoulders and settling against Mickey’s back. 

_“I know,”_ Ian says, voice low in Mickey’s ear. He mouths at his neck, wrapping an arm around Mickey’s body to pull them closer together. 

“You gonna fuck me?” Mickey manages to ask, trying to peer back over his shoulder. 

He hears the familiar _popping_ sound from a bottle of lube, one that had been buried at the bottom of Ian’s bag; broken from one time or another, when Ian accidentally threw it too hard off the bed. 

It’s so stupid, but it makes Mickey smile. 

Ian sighs, maybe a little flustered, as he drags his tongue across the back of Mickey’s neck. “Gonna _make love_ to you,” he says, correctively.

Mickey wants to fucking argue with him, although, their arguments feel more like flirting than anything else—but his mind goes _blank_ as Ian sinks into him, hooking a leg up over Mickey’s thigh. 

He wraps both arms around Mickey’s body, one hand pressing into the space between his chest and stomach, while the other reaches for his cock. And then, they’re moving in tandem; with Ian holding Mickey against him, molding and rocking their bodies together. 

Mickey pushes back, tries to hit back against Ian’s thrusts, pulling moans from Ian’s lips that send a shiver down Mickey’s spine.

God, it feels so good. It’s been _weeks_ —weeks since Mickey last had this, weeks since Mickey thought he’d never have it again. But it’s Ian, all fucking Ian—holding him, thrusting into him, kissing at his neck, moaning into his ear. 

Fuck, fuck, _Ian._

And it’s good, so _good,_ as Ian holds him tighter. 

As Ian’s hips rotate, a little harder, a little faster. 

As Ian hits that spot, as Mickey _moans_ , as Ian hits it again _and again._

It’s a lot, almost too much, because Mickey had already been so fucking close and now he’s fucking filled up with a steady push, push, _push_ against his prostate. 

And it’s bringing him _closer._

Close to the edge, close to tumbling over, close to crashing and falling deep into a place where Ian and _only Ian_ will ever be able to catch him. 

Mickey tips his head back into Ian’s neck, gasping when Ian leans forward to kiss him, and _fuck,_ he never wants to stop kissing him. And then, it’s another moment of scrambling and shuffling and _pulling out_ until Mickey ends up on his back and Ian drapes himself over Mickey’s body, pushing back inside easily as Mickey folds his legs up over the back of Ian’s thighs.

And with Ian fucking down against him, kissing him, breathing against him, Mickey feels it as his stomach clenches and his balls tighten and he just tries to fucking _hold on_. 

It makes Mickey _weak_ , the way Ian kisses like he’s pouring all of his love into it. They move together seamlessly, breathing heavily between broken moans and sharp gasps. Mickey’s arms are wrapped around Ian’s back, holding onto him, fingers dragging through the sheen of sweat on Ian’s skin. 

And when Ian whispers, _“I love you, fucking love you,”_ Mickey feels it, rippling through every single nerve within body, as Ian’s words become the final force to push Mickey over the edge. 

And, this fucking feeling, the one that comes only from Ian; the one that comes from the two of them melting into one another—there’s nothing else in the fucking universe, that could ever come close. 

Mickey doesn’t even fucking realize it, the way he’s saying Ian’s name like a prayer, shaking, _coming,_ gasping as Ian starts coming, too.

 _“Love you,”_ Ian says again, voice breaking as he adds, _“Fucking love all of you.”_

It’s so much. So fucking much, because Mickey _never had this_. He never fucking had this, never knew he _could_ have it. He never knew what the fuck it could feel like, to come apart in the arms of someone you love, more than anything, with your entire body, mind, and soul.

But he finally has it, _he finally has all of it,_ and holy fuck, he’s going to have it forever. 

This time, he’s going to have it forever. 

_He’s going to have Ian forever._

And, when they’re coming down, catching their breath as they lie against each other, Ian says, _“_ Thanks—for saving my life. Don’t think I’d be here without you.”

Mickey wants to say, _“I don’t think I’d be here without you, either,”_ but ultimately, he decides against it.

Instead, Mickey kisses Ian’s forehead, grabbing for his hand until their fingers are slotted together, again. It goes unspoken, but Mickey feels certain that Ian knows. 

_This time, he’s going to have Ian forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


	15. The Beginning of Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officially, this final chapter marks the end of this journey :)
> 
> I can honestly say that this fic turned into something so much larger than I originally expected. When I started brainstorming, I had never successfully completed a WIP before. I was really hopeful about this one, but I also truly anticipated pulling something together that was meant to have a word count of about 25-30k.
> 
> Obviously, this story really took on a life of its own, in so many ways. Writing this version of Ian and Mickey ended up being incredibly therapeutic. They've become an escape for me, in a way that I just didn't expect. I've spent four months traveling down this road with them, and although it's been an emotional one, it's made me really happy to create this universe for them—and, most importantly, to bring them safely to the end. 
> 
> This last chapter is somewhat of an epilogue, and it's certainly shorter than previous chapters. It's a two year time jump, meant to offer some insight into what the future of Ian and Mickey's world really looks like. It also should answer most of the questions that I purposely left open-ended.
> 
> Thank you so much for all of your support as I've been writing this. Your kudos, comments, and kind words have really meant the world to me. For anyone reading, whether you've been reading along for months or are just starting now that it's complete, I really hope you enjoy reading this story just as much as I've enjoyed writing it<3

The Beginning of Forever (2 Years Later)

There’s something beautiful about a summer sunset, as brilliant crimson and tranquil golden replace the normal, pale blue of the sky. The world becomes a bit more striking, with vibrant colors and wispy clouds, lightly dusted with pinkish-purple hues. 

It’s almost ethereal; too picturesque to be real, like a suspended moment in time. And, maybe, Mickey needs to blink once or twice, just to make sure that it’s not a dream _._

Because, for Mickey, life wasn’t always a crimson sunset. And a sunset, bringing the promise of tomorrow, wasn’t always guaranteed. 

A future, a life worth living, _a world worth living in,_ wasn’t always guaranteed. 

And it’s true, even still, that nothing in life is guaranteed. But to live and to love by fateful chance, to survive against the odds of the universe, to be brought together by _something—_ whether it be fortuitous or coincidence or for no fucking reason at all—to Mickey, that feels like fucking _everything._

The world looks a bit different than it did two years ago, when Mickey was first placed in a lockdown facility, shut away from the world as it crumbled and decayed before his eyes. 

Somehow, it’s been two years.

Two years, since Mickey spent nearly twelve weeks behind locked doors, followed by twenty _more_ weeks (or five months) of blood donations and lab testing.

And, maybe most significantly, it’s been two years since Mickey met Ian.

Those first eight months feel like another lifetime, somehow; the ones that Mickey spent falling in love, _learning_ to love, and finding the strength to love himself. And it’s true that those months packed a real fucking punch, into a fairly short period of time. 

Destruction, love, loss, and grief. Hope, restoration, new beginnings. A yearning for life that Mickey never, _ever_ had before. 

And with Ian, the realization that sometimes, love can be eternal, unconditional, beautiful, and thrilling. Beyond explanation, defying Mickey’s past, building Mickey’s future, growing from _nothing_ into something that Mickey never thought he was meant to have. 

But, fucking hell, he finally has it. 

As he sits down by the water, watching day turn into night, breathing in the fresh air of summer with Ian lying beside him, Mickey finally fucking has it. Love, and everything that comes with it. 

Happiness, hope, desire, passion.

A life worth living, in a world worth living in, with someone worth _living it with._

A world where Mickey’s future is Ian’s and Ian’s future is Mickey’s, blended together by love and promises and _strength;_ the kind that comes from surviving together. The kind that comes from enduring life’s most horrible obstacles together. The kind that comes from crawling through hell and back—and doing fucking all of it— _together._

That’s Mickey’s kind of love.

* * *

Two years ago, as the world fell into desolation and ruin, Mickey Milkovich held the key—the missing component to what would become the restoration of humanity.

No big fucking deal, or anything. 

Mickey, along with his sister and cousin, would jump start something that was previously thought to be impossible. They were the beginning of a breakthrough, carrying the genes necessary to create appropriate antibodies at rapid speeds; strong enough to fight off and destroy viral antigens in a way that others had not previously been able to.

Because, as Mickey’s immune system was exposed, his body went into overdrive, destroying the virus instantly in its path. While Mickey’s body compensated, too rapidly to ever show symptoms or traces of the virus in his blood, his results would continue to read negative. 

They weren’t testing for antibodies, after all. 

In most cases, positive viral infections had been moving too quickly to ever allow antibodies to develop. The mortality rate after exposure was nearly _one hundred percent_ , because most immune systems were unable to fight off the pathogens.

Like Ian, for example.

When Ian’s immune system fell under attack, his decline was rapid. But, where most people experienced a steady decline until coma, death, or what became known as _transitional dementia_ —Ian’s body found another means of defense. And that defense, by fate, by happenstance, by _something,_ had been Mickey.

Passive immunity, or the natural transfer of antibodies from one person to another, allowed the progression of Ian’s viral infection to slow down, until it ultimately stopped completely. And, although Mickey’s antibodies weren’t quite as aggressive once passed on to another, they were _enough._

And so, Ian improved. 

Until he was fucking _healthy,_ Ian improved. 

It’s true, typically, that passive immunity isn’t long term. And, although nothing about this situation was typical, Dr. Seaver injected Ian with some of Mickey’s plasma once he had already started to get better.

It was a hunch, and it was a fucking good one. 

Dr. Seaver, clever and creative and open-minded, had also done the same for himself. At the first sign of his own symptoms—a mild cough and sore throat—he injected himself with Mickey’s plasma. And it, quite literally, saved his life. 

What Dr. Seaver found when studying Mickey’s blood samples more closely, and what he had suspected all along, was the presence of those antibodies; the very same found in Ian’s blood, once Ian started to improve. 

The antibodies were discovered in Sandy and Mandy’s blood samples, too, once the lab doctors knew what they were looking for. 

Mickey, the fucking canary in a coal mine, carrying what felt like the key to the whole motherfucking universe. 

From there, it was months of lab tests. Blood samples were regularly taken from Mickey, Sandy, and Mandy—and eventually, Ian too—as they were rapidly distributed on a global scale. The samples were constructed into treatments and vaccines; even aiding in the creation of synthetic formulations, meant to increase the availability as quickly as possible.

There was an ongoing search to track down Mickey’s other relatives, and even beyond that, the hunt was on to find others carrying genes similar to the Milkovich line. They were out there, hard to track down, harder to recruit. But as they were found, and as more and more individuals began donating, there was a newfound sense of hope.

It played out like a positive kind of domino effect. 

As people recovered, and as antibodies developed in their systems, they were able to donate, too. 

And, in a slow but incredible progression of events, the world and its inhabitants, once broken by death and despair, finally began to heal. 

* * *

It's been two years since Mickey was placed in a lockdown facility, shut away from the world as it crumbled and decayed before his eyes—and Mickey is a fucking homeowner, now. 

Well, a _co-homeowner_ , technically.

He lives in a two-story house outside of Chicago, located in a quiet neighborhood in Oak Park, and he absolutely fucking _loves_ it. 

Mickey certainly never pictured himself in a big, cozy home with a patio and a fucking pool in the backyard. It just didn’t seem possible. That kind of shit wasn’t meant for Mickey. At least, he didn’t think it was. He has money, now, though. Compensation for months and months of unrequitable offerings, like the blood running through his veins. 

But, then again, _most_ of Mickey’s life has turned out far differently than he ever expected. 

He wonders what it would be like, to go back in time and talk to the past versions of himself. 

After the inevitable moment of panic, after strapping past-Mickey down to a chair and duct taping his fucking mouth shut to get him to stop screaming, Mickey would tell him:

> _Calm the fuck down, and listen to me, kid. The world is gonna fall apart one day, but you’re gonna have a major fuckin’ role in restoring it. And, in the process, you’re gonna meet a man, and you’re gonna fall in fuckin' love with him. And, the best part is that he’s gonna fuckin’ love you, too._

Past-Mickey probably wouldn’t believe him, but that’s okay. 

Sometimes, it’s hard for him to believe it, too.

His co-homeowner, of course, is Ian. 

Ian received compensation, too. But, in the case of them living together, it’s more about the fact that neither of them can imagine living apart, than it is about money. 

When Mickey wakes up in the mornings, it’s usually to the familiar smell of coffee wafting into their bedroom, because some things just don’t really ever change. On most mornings, Ian crawls back into bed to pull Mickey into his chest, smiling as he kisses him on the neck. 

But, sometimes, Ian leaves for work before Mickey’s eyes are even fucking open, and Mickey finds notes stuck to the coffee machine that say, “ _Have a good day. Love you :) - Ian”_

He signs his fucking name every time, as if Mickey would think it was somebody else, instead.

And that’s the kind of shit that still makes Mickey’s heart flutter in a way that nothing else really can.

Mickey spends a lot of his time helping people find adequate housing options, with so many families and homes having been uprooted when the virus was at its worst. And it feels good, because Mickey knows what it’s like to feel like you’re at the end of the road. He knows what it’s like to feel like you have nothing left. And, if he can help give people a little bit of hope, that’s what the fuck he’s going to do.

After it became clear that Mickey’s efforts were well received, he found that he needed a bit of help. Lip started working with him, then, to take a bit of the workload off his shoulders.

Thankfully, Lip and the rest of Ian’s family remained healthy. 

They’re safe, now, after receiving preventative vaccinations. And if they come over every week to annoy the fuck out of Mickey by taking over his pool, Mickey tries to not let it show.

Ian, meanwhile, started working as an EMT again. 

Or, more like, as a medical assistant, in general.

Filled with aspiration, eager for purpose, and desperately longing to prove something to _himself,_ it came easily to Ian. With the world at such a transitional period, Dr. Seaver had asked him to start working on their medical team. Locally, throughout the Chicago area, Ian helped administer injections and transfusions, to the sickest individuals in need of immediate assistance.

For them, Ian was a beacon of hope, too. Because, Ian, back at full force after once being on death’s door, gave patients the strength to believe that they would get better, too. 

And, more often than not, they did. 

Working on Dr. Seaver’s medical team ignited a spark within Ian that he had been missing for quite some time. And, just like that, the boy who once felt like he didn’t belong, discovered that his life really did mean something, after all. 

And, it’s funny, the way that both Ian and Mickey had spent so much of their lives doubting themselves, struggling to find their self-worth. 

Because, really, in the end, what would the world have done without them? 

In the end, what would they have done without each other?

* * *

Life is pretty fucking great, actually, in a way that Mickey never really knew that it could be.

And as Mickey falls back, brushing against Ian’s shoulder, resting on the blanket that they’ve laid out across the grass, Ian looks over at him and smiles.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Ian says. “Like you’re thinking way too hard about something.”

Mickey’s not really thinking about anything in particular, at least not really. Just—he’s lucky, and he’s grateful. And sometimes it hits him, in a really monumental sort of way.

“Not really,” Mickey says, noticing as Ian’s eyes catch the moonlight. “Maybe a little bit about you, and a little bit about us.”

Ian’s expression remains sort of neutral, as he continues looking into Mickey’s eyes. 

“Are you breaking up with me?” Ian says, or more like _deadpans_ , reaching out to brush his fingers down Mickey’s arm.

Mickey scoffs, scrunching up his nose. 

“ _Yeah,_ ‘cause I’m sick of wakin’ up to your annoying ass every day.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Ian says. He rolls onto his stomach, scooting over until he’s lying across Mickey’s chest. He leans down to kiss Mickey’s lips once, whispers, “So fucking _sick_ of you,” before kissing him again.

And it spreads a familiar warmth through Mickey, the same way it always does, tugging at his heartstrings and forcing him to smile into it.

What a fucking feeling, to be kissing Ian by the river beneath the stars, after spending the evening basking in the glow of the sunset. 

They tend to waste a lot of time outside, and Mickey thinks it’s probably a comfort thing, after being stuck indoors for so many months. 

“Sick of me, huh?” Mickey asks, breaking their kiss. “Get your lips off my face, then.”

“No,” Ian refuses, kissing him again, setting a hand on the side of his face. 

Ian makes an obnoxious _smacking_ sound against Mickey’s lips, grinning when Mickey starts to laugh. And Mickey _loves_ this, when Ian makes him break into fits of laughter, although he’ll never fucking admit that shit to his face.

“Sick of _you,_ but I like your face.”

Mickey places both hands on each of Ian’s shoulders, pushing until he’s rolling him over onto his back. Ian hits the ground with a thud, laughing as Mickey climbs over his body and pins his wrists to the ground. 

“Hate you,” Ian says, although the look in his eyes says something much different.

“Doubt that,” Mickey replies, leaning back down to kiss him again.

Ian slides his hands around the back of Mickey’s neck, gently strokes his fingers back and forth across Mickey’s skin. His kisses are soft, and Mickey feels kind of light and airy, with the calming rise and fall of Ian’s chest beneath him. 

When Mickey pulls back, Ian has this fond sort of expression on his face. It makes Mickey feel a little exposed, like Ian is looking at Mickey like he’s _everything_ that Ian loves about the entire fucking world. Mickey gets it, though. That’s how he feels about Ian, too.

"The fuck are you lookin’ at?” Mickey says, softly. 

Ian smiles, hesitates, then says, “Kinda want to ask you something.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. It sounds serious, sort of.

He nods, encouraging Ian to continue.

And then, Ian says, “I love you, you know.”

“Love you, too,” Mickey nods again, then tilts his head to the side. “But that shit ain’t a question.”

Ian laughs, gently tapping his hand against Mickey’s neck. 

And Mickey. Mickey feels so fucking in love, it’s almost enough to make his chest hurt.

“My question—” Ian pauses, looks directly into Mickey’s eyes. 

“Spit it the fuck out,” Mickey says, leaning down to kiss Ian on the lips again. 

Because, fuck, sometimes he can’t fucking help it.

Ian laughs into Mickey’s mouth, grabs for his shoulders and shoves him over until, this time, Ian is on top. Mickey slides his fingers up into Ian’s hair, and he feels something building between them, like a vibrating drum roll of excitement.

“Mickey,” Ian begins, his voice almost a whisper. He kisses Mickey once, ghosts over his lips, and finally asks, _“Will you marry me?”_

And Mickey, laughing, in complete and total fucking love, says, _"Of course I'll fuckin' marry you."_

* * *

This kind of love, the kind that Mickey never knew he could have, is the shit that people fucking live for.

It’s the shit that people write songs about. It’s the shit that people _dream_ about.

It’s the shit that people are straight up fucking _annoying_ about.

And Mickey fucking gets it, now. 

It’s what made all of this worth it. It’s what made every bit of pain and struggle and fear, fucking worth it. 

That's Mickey's kind of love.

And if Mickey was back at the beginning, two years earlier, thrown into chaos and horror with a complete and total _stranger—_ that same redheaded stranger whose name he couldn’t be bothered to ask for—Mickey would do it all over again. 

In a fucking heartbeat, Mickey would do it _all over again._

Because to feel this kind of love, to feel this kind of thrill, without a fucking doubt, is what makes Mickey’s life worth living. 

And Mickey, in love with Ian, _engaged_ to Ian, with their entire fucking lives ahead of them, is pretty damn certain that no feeling in the entire fucking universe could ever be as thrilling as love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


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